La Liberté d'Amélie Lacroix
by Overwatcher
Summary: One take on the origins of the Widowmaker. The roads we take to freedom often cost us much; for Amélie Lacroix, the cost was extreme. Rated M for nudity, sexuality, intense themes, violence, and language. This story focuses on the characters and events that lead Amélie Lacroix to ascend to her freedom as the Widowmaker. There are plans for 10-15 chapters. [MercyMaker]
1. Paris

The night was unseasonably warm in Paris. The air conditioner whirred in the window - set up hastily some days before when the temperatures had started to climb. Even with its cool jet of air, though, it still felt as though sweat dripped from every pore.

Blankets had been forsaken by the couple, and Gérard, at least, was sound asleep. For Amélie, this was another sleepless night. Sweat clung her thin clothing to her body, which chafed and itched more than it should have, but no amount of squirming or scratching could alleviate it. Couple that with restless thoughts and the on-again-off-again snoring of her lover, and she was left to watch the billowing orange glow of the curtain as it caught itself again and again in the airflow from the whirring machine in the window, only to fall out, dangling back to where it had started. It was futility, and it was trapped.

For a moment, she sympathized.

The thought itself caught her off guard. How could she be sympathizing with a curtain? And yet as she watched it try again to free itself from its place beside the window by the currents of the chilled air, she wanted it to be free. And once again, it buckled, returning to its place.

Always beside the window. Always trapped.

Amélie frowned, beginning to prop herself up on her forearm. Why shouldn't it be free? Legs shifted over the side of the bed, and she finally gave up on trying to sleep. Gérard turned on his side, but continued to snore, and a smile slipped onto her lips. Good, she hadn't woken him. If she was quiet, she still wouldn't.

Her lithe form had been something she'd always hated; she felt too tall, and like it made her stand out. Now, though, it proved a benefit, and she was able to begin silently unhooking the curtain from its fastenings. Part of her longed to take the fabric and tear it odd to throw flailing across the quiet room. Its freedom deserved as much effort.

The curtain released, she gave it a smile before letting it drop quietly to the floor, and let her eyes scan over the streets and alleys that were in eyesight of the apartment. Here a man was taking out the trash behind his restaurant, looking satisfied with his earnings for the night, but still displeased by the trip to the dumpster through the heat of the night.

Her eyes flicked to the right, and she saw a couple having an argument as they walked down the street. From here she could read what their lips were saying - something having to do with the man having gotten a little too friendly with her friends. Accusations flew, words were misinterpreted, but the tension soon found its conclusion. Amélie pouted - she'd been hoping for a little bit more entertainment, but the couple sauntered awkwardly away, the man following several steps behind and looking as though he'd been properly called out.

Amélie turned her gaze back to her husband, wondering if he'd ever do anything like that to her. Wondering if he would break her heart. Wondering how she would react. Thoughts very quickly turned dark, and she pinched her eyes shut to chase them away. 'No, Amélie,' she told herself, 'we can't have any of that.'

Once again, she turned to the city for entertainment, trying to find something to help her pass the night-and there it was. A young woman rounded a corner into view, wearing far too little to have been anywhere but a club. She stumbled, barely managing to catch herself, and betraying her intoxication. 'At least she has the sense not to drive,' she thought, looking on as she began trying to walk again.

A moment passed, and a group of four men rounded the corner, their gaze on the woman as they slowly closed the distance. Amélie's eyes fixed on them. She could see their intent from the look in their eyes, what words she could make out from their lips, and the bulges in their trousers. Gazing again to the girl, it was clear what her fate could be. And given how at least one of the men had a knife in his pocket that she could see, it was time to act.

"Gérard," she called, keeping her gaze fixed on the woman, memorizing her position, and her route.

"What is it, love?" He asked moments later, his voice still groggy from sleep.

"Get up and put your suit on," she said, "you get to go be a hero."

With something of a groan, the man pushed himself up and began to dress. Amélie hadn't even looked his way. Only after he'd left the room did she stoop to retrieve the curtain, beginning to put it back. It would not be free this night, after all.


	2. Geneva

"Amélie, I'd like you to meet Dr. Angela Ziegler."

The voice speaking belonged to Dr. Samuel Regis, chief of medical operations in Overwatch. Amélie and Gérard had been assigned as part of the security detail at a science and medical convention in Geneva. Dr. Regis had asked for their supervision personally, as with so many brilliant and forward-thinking minds in attendance, the threat from Talon was bordering on absurd. Amélie had been rapt in her thoughts on the precautions they still needed to take, following silently behind the doctor as he prattled on about nothing in particular. Only when he'd interrupted her did Amélie look up, seeming somewhat lost.

"Oh, surely one so preoccupied doesn't need to be interrupted with _my_ introduction," Ziegler replied, and Amélie could only smirk as she noticed the subtle playfulness to her smile, which betrayed her love of the attention. Her white-blonde hair was wrapped behind her head, a few loose strands fluttering down her face in their gentle curls. Blue eyes struck at Amélie, and she allowed herself to examine the woman in her cool, dark blue business suit, lined with the faintest of pink accents. It fit her well, and while demonstrating the gentle curves of her body, did not draw undue attention to them. The skirt cut off at the knees, revealing her legs, which Amélie flicked her eyes away from after the shortest of moments spent admiring them. A notepad in her arms was scribbled into, before the stylus was stowed and the device turned off.

"You give yourself far too little credit, Dr. Ziegler," Amélie responded with a smile of her own, "we've been advised by your superiors that you could pose the largest challenge from an asset that we've had to face." A faint curl at the edge of her lips betrayed her own mischievous intent.

"'Largest challenge?!'" Angela scoffed. "They _would_ say something like that, wouldn't they?" Turning to Dr. Regis, the doctor continued. "Is that why they keep trying to talk me up to you, Sam?"

"Your work speaks for itself, my dear," the elder doctor replied with a smile, before returning to Amélie, who was fighting the temptation to return to her planning, "I've been trying to get Angela to join our ranks for years now. She'd be able to do a lot of good, if she'd be willing to help us out."

"Nevertheless, I do hope you'll let my husband and I do our jobs to protect you, Dr. Ziegler," Amélie's smile cut through the jovial tones of the conversation, and brought it back to matters at hand. Both of the doctors' smiles disappeared. "We're here to protect you, but we'll need your cooperation to do that." They'd heard directly from Dr. Ziegler's superiors that she was something of a loose cannon. In a situation like this, that could prove disastrous - and Amélie had sized her up in a minute.

"Amélie, is it?" Angela asked, smiling flatly, "I don't know what my superiors may have told you, but I can assure you that I won't need protecting. I'm a big girl—I can handle myself." Amélie, releasing her smile, took a moment to study the young doctor's form, her posture, the way her nostrils seemed to flare with her breathing to show her angst, and the way she tensed up her shoulders to show the insecurity she was desperately trying to hide.

"Dr. Ziegler," she began, shifting her posture slightly and assuming a well-practiced form and tone, "I have not done much in the way of studying your past, but I can tell that you come from both privilege and hardship. You're young. Arrogant. You've made a name for yourself, and so you think you're untouchable. And this hides your past. People said you couldn't—you proved them wrong. People told you 'no,' and you were driven to spite them. Everything you have ever done has been to prove that you are better than the world thinks you are.

"But you're not. You may be clever, and you may be quick-witted, but you are no better than the rest. You eat like the rest. You breathe like the rest. You shit like the rest. And you can die like the rest. At the end of the day, you're just as vulnerable as anybody else. The deaths you have spent your life trying to reverse are permanent - you cannot bring a single person back. No parents. No siblings. No friends. No lovers. Death is final, and it is our job to protect you from it while you are here.

"So please, Dr. Ziegler, unless you wish to join those you lost, let us do our job." Amélie's cold stare into Angela's eyes was unforgiving, and she could tell that she'd struck a nerve, to say the very least. With assets as chaotic as Angela, she knew she needed to. Tears had begun welling up, and the shock and hurt from what had been said stung as it began to sink in.

"Lacroix!" Dr. Regis' face betrayed his fury, but he clearly didn't understand what was at stake. She turned her gaze to him, revealing the regret of the few assets they'd lost before taking that sort of approach - and he backed down.

"Very well," she replied, the waver in her voice betraying her upset, "I will cooperate." Angela then turned to the other in their company, and managed a smile. "If you'll excuse me, then, Sam, I must freshen up a bit. I believe there's a briefing Mrs. Lacroix has scheduled for myself and the other speakers this evening, and I have yet to unpack."

"Well, I suppose I can't argue with that," Dr. Regis replied, trying to bring back some of the warmth the conversation had had before Amélie chimed in with her abrasive reply. "I suppose you can join me and my wife for dinner after? There's a restaurant in town that serves an excellent canard dish."

"I think I'd like that," she said with a smile, but it didn't bear any of the warmth she'd had formerly, and she let the smile fade some before looking back to Amélie, "but for now, I must be going. Good afternoon, Dr., Mrs. Lacroix." And with that, she turned about, high heels clacking against the pavement as she retreated into the venue, likely to her suite, leaving Amélie and Dr. Regis alone.

"Was that really necessary, Lacroix?" the doctor asked, turning to his counterpart, looking concerned. Amélie didn't return his look, and her eyes followed the woman as she disappeared behind the glass doors.

"It was for her own good, Regis," she said simply, "I just hope I got through to her."

* * *

The rest of the afternoon went as peacefully as could be expected for Amélie. Arrangements fell into place, agents were double- and triple-assigned to their details about the premises. Overwatch had eyes and ears everywhere, both stationary and on the assets themselves. Through it all, though, Amélie found herself distracted. There was something in how Dr. Ziegler had retreated, in how she'd readily said she would cooperate that gave her cause to worry.

Though it wasn't really as though they could do anything about it. There were already guards outside of every door, the balconies were secured, and Dr. Ziegler would receive the same escort privilege to and from the venues that every other speaker, and every other asset received.

Angela Ziegler could make their lives a lot harder if she wanted, but she was not the first difficult asset they had to deal with, and nor would she be the last.

Talon had made the same vague threats for this conference as every other. Videos had surfaced on social media a week ago, villainizing Overwatch with footage removed from its context, playing to impossible sympathies. They had stayed online long enough to create a buzz before they were pulled. They mentioned Geneva, and so Geneva was where she and Gérard had been dispatched. It was always a game of chess with Talon, and the winner was always decided before the first move.

Amélie sat in the operations van, staring at the blueprints that were marked up on monitors before her over and over, studying positions and routes that she'd long since memorized. Her mind wandered, and she began to try to pick apart their strategy, and how they might attack.

At least until a pair of strong hands met her shoulders, beginning to rub. Thumbs pressed hard into the muscles of her back, and she leaned into the familiar motions.

"You're tense, love," Gérard said, leaning forward and positioning his head over hers as he continued to massage her shoulders, studying the blueprints and seeing completely different details than she. Considering he was the chief field operative for this detail, and considering he always worked in the field, she'd come to accept this difference in perspective—and appreciate it.

"It's nothing," she said dismissively, "just anxious for this weekend to be over so we can get back to Paris." His hands continued, finding a pair of knots towards the base of her neck and attempting to rub them out. Amélie's lips parted and her brow furrowed as he pushed harder, but soon the relief began, and she couldn't help but smile.

"It's more than that," his hands began to focus on her neck and the thin muscles at its back, "I just heard from Dr. Regis."

"That bad?" She asked, her head bobbing as he rubbed.

"He described it as a 'verbal bitchslap out of nowhere.'"

"Gérard, she's a rogue, she'd get herself killed by trying to escape our detail-"

"And so you wanted to head her off?" The massage stopped, and he turned her chair, squatting down to her level to look her in the eye. His brown hair and big, blue eyes gave her the look that meant he was trying to feel her out, and Amélie betrayed her feelings with a sigh.

"It's the only way I've known to be effective with people like her," she finally replied. "Once they know that we won't put up with any bullshit, and that we are willing to hurt them if it means saving them, they usually comply."

Gérard nodded, and Amélie knew it was sincere. He agreed wholeheartedly with what she was saying-he'd been the one to teach her how to do that-but she could sense the rebuttal hanging in his expression, and in his posture. Her smile vanished, and her distaste for what he was about to say became apparent before he could even say it.

"Regis went to the Director. The Director came to me." Gérard knew his words could not be well-received, and the way he spoke reflected that much. Amélie scowled.

"So what does he want me to do?" She asked, "I'm not sorry for what I did or said. I'd say it again in a heartbeat, if I had to!"

"I know you would, and I'm not arguing with you! But the Director won't be satisfied until he hears from Dr. Ziegler that you apologized."

A moment of silence passed between the couple, as Amélie simply stared at her husband in disbelief.

"Apologize? When I'm not sorry?"

"I know, love, but-"

"That's ridiculous! She needed to hear what I had to say!"

"She was an orphan, Amélie! Her parents died in the old war!" Gérard's voice began to rise, and he stood.

"I don't give two shits about her parents if it means saving her life!" And Amélie stood as well, the fire in her voice reflecting in her eyes as she stared her husband down. And he let out a sigh, trying not to let his own displeasure with the situation color his position, or his statements.

"Please, Amélie," he said finally, his expression softening, "just…go talk to her. Be nice. Apologize for upsetting her, if you think it's appropriate, but please, just go try to make amends." She let the fire in her eyes dissipate some. Inhaling long and letting it out, she turned and returned to her seat, beginning to stack up some of her papers.

"Why is she so special, anyway?" she finally replied, tucking the stack into her satchel to be sorted and stapled later.

"The Director wants her for a new initiative," Gérard replied, "something about elite field and combat operations. He said she's fishing for reasons not to join, and we just gave her a big one." Just like that, Amélie knew she'd lost the discussion. If the director wanted her on board, she needed to be nice.

"Just think about it at least, alright?" Gérard said, rising. "I need to go have a final briefing with the mobile teams before we can open the doors. I love you." Leaning over, he planted a kiss on her cheek, before turning and leaving the van.

Amélie brought a hand up to feel where he'd kissed, and let out a sigh. There was no sense in delaying it, so she, too, rose and exited the van. The door locked, she began to make her way towards the hotel where their assets were staying. At least this way, she wouldn't have to worry about it anymore.

But really, she thought, what was there that she could even say?

* * *

The briefing was three hours away. Yet try as she might, Amélie could not quite rid her mind of the responsibility for what she'd said. Mostly, it was the pressure that was coming down straight from the director. The nameless force guiding their organization had heard her name in connection to something that reflected poorly on Overwatch. She was the blemish. She hated that, but more than that, she felt as though she hadn't actually done anything wrong about it.

It was as stressful as it was frustrating, and so as the elevator dinged and opened on the eleventh floor of the hotel, she let out an exhale. She'd managed to spruce herself up slightly. She'd buttoned her blouse and fixed her hair - she'd even found the jacket she never wore, and tried to quickly flatten some of the wrinkles in her skirt. Anything to make her look more genuine, right?

One long corridor led to another, led to a third, and Amélie finally found herself at the right door. Despite protocol, none of the guards were chastised for failing to gain her security clearance. She wasn't in the mood to repeat the same sequence at every turn and any time she passed a patrol in the hallway, anyway. They'd get an informal warning later, if anything, she reasoned, before realizing something.

She was stalling.

It was true that apologies always made her uncomfortable, but the challenge here was in that the director had tasked her with breaking one of the cardinal rules of this type of assignment: never connect with the asset, because it will stop you from doing what needs to be done.

Or maybe that was the challenge she could focus on; instead of how to apologize for something that she hadn't done wrong, how to interact with the asset on a personal level without becoming attached.

A hand was raised, and Amélie rapt three times on the door.

"Dr. Ziegler?" She called after a few moments, but there was no answer. Three more knocks were left on the door, and they went unanswered. "Dr. Ziegler, it's Amélie Lacroix. Can I come in?" And even still, there was no answer. Part of it may have been the chatter in her earpiece, which had become background noise to her. Sentries and patrols communicating, calling clear zones, reporting on their own locations and the locations of others. Still, despite it being background noise, it _was_ still noise, so she pulled the earpiece off her ear and tucked it in her jacket pocket.

Three more knocks. "Angela? Are you here?" A few more moments yielded silence, and for once she was glad that she was in charge of the security detail. From the same pocket where her earpiece had been, she withdrew her access card and slid it through the lock, waiting for the telltale green light and click before opening the door and stepping in.

"Dr. Ziegler, are you in? This is Amélie Lacroix. I've come to...apologize..." But there was still no answer, and she let the door shut behind her, moving further into the room. It was a generously-sized suite, more generous than she and Gérard had been given. For the briefest of moments, jealousy and rage washed over her mind, but then an understanding dawned - it was _all_ about sucking up to this woman; this doctor who had somehow earned the Director's focus and attention. He wanted her in the organization, and he wanted her _very_ badly.

Amélie's tentative expression and demeanor grew into a flat smile, and she began to move more deeply into the suite, beginning to examine its contents. "Dr. Ziegler?" She tried once more, but so far there was nothing to suggest the good doctor was here right now. Sure, her bags were partially unpacked, and three events' worth of outfits were laid out on her bed, but with a bed to spare, that much made enough sense. The closets, she recalled, were surprisingly cumbersome.

Her searching gaze shifted from the bed to the armoire, which held a few knickknacks. A rag doll that fit with what she knew of the doctor's past was frayed at its edges, and bore some staining that even the best dry-cleaners would be hard pressed to remove. It sat against the mirror, along with an old printed photograph that had been inserted just into the frame. The color had long since bleached from the three figures, but enough remained on the folded, cracked parchment for her to see a middle aged man and woman, and a young girl, all beaming. They were dressed in their Sunday best, but Amélie knew the clothing had likely been rented. This was the last memento Dr. Ziegler had from before she'd become an orphan of war; these were her parents and the little blonde girl with pigtails was a very young Angela Ziegler.

There was a strange fondness in the smile that Amélie found as she regarded the photo, and how she was able to momentarily lose herself in the sentiment she imagined Angela feeling about it. She thought of how it must have been a very happy childhood, at least until the bombing that stole that happiness away. And like that, the smile was gone, and she let her eyes shut. No, don't attach. Don't get sentimental. Stay professional. Her elbows locked and she leaned onto the armoire. Breathe in, breathe out.

The woman turned her face to the mirror, and she looked into her own eyes, trying to find her own center again. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this insecure. 'Pull it together, Amélie,' she told herself, continuing to study the tired lines of her own face.

Uncounted moments passed, before the familiar, quiet click of a gun's safety being disabled brought her back to the present. Her eyes widened slightly, and she trained her gaze in the mirror on a much less composed Dr. Ziegler. The pistol was low caliber, but Angela clearly had experience in holding and firing it—even though her body trembled in the cool air of the hotel room, the gun stayed steady, and her eyes were locked on Amélie.

That was when she saw the little girl in that photograph. The woman had tears streaming down her cheeks, her eyeliner and mascara having mixed in and traced a pair of dark lines on either side. Her blue eyes bore the pain that Amélie had imagined moments before. It struck her that she'd triggered as much, and her composure began to break. The cool demeanor shifted, edging through pity for the sad girl to apologetic. Angela, in turn, had gone from shock and fear towards an odd combination of fury and sorrow.

"I was too harsh," Amélie said quietly, suddenly knowing that her 'professional detachment' was no longer an option. She leaned back against the armoire, her brows knitting ever so slightly as she regarded the woman, "Dr. Ziegler, I-"

"You what?" The woman stepped forward, keeping her gun trained on the intruder. Her jaw was clenched, and the weapon was cradled in both hands as she took a stronger position.

"I'm sorry," she replied simply, "for…what I said. For upsetting you." And for the first time, Amélie forgot her mantra. A sigh let out, and she shut her eyes. She hated feeling vulnerable like this. Even with Gérard, she almost never let him see her emotional side. It was an embarrassment, or so her father had told her.

The safety clicked back on, and Amélie let her eyes open once more. Angela had lowered the gun, and set it on the bed, and it was only then that Amélie noticed her attire: a thin robe that clung to her, betraying the shower or bath she'd only just stepped out of. It left little to the imagination, and then she realized she'd been staring, even if only for a moment.

"Is that all, Mrs. Lacroix?" Angela asked, folding her arms in front of her, a new line of tears forming. "Are you really sorry, or did that nitwit Sam force you to come up here? Because I certainly don't have time for that."

"Angela, I-"

"'Dr. Ziegler,' please." Angela corrected, cutting Amélie off.

"Dr. Ziegler, then," she corrected herself, closing her eyes and taking a moment to regain her composure. "I _did_ speak too harshly. We've lost..." Her eyes had opened while she was speaking, but a nagging red light caught the corner of her eye, and she watched as the dot traced along the wall behind Angela before settling squarely on her forehead.

Instinct and training kicked in. At once, Amélie tore the sheet off the bed and thrust it upward with the clothing Angela had selected for herself to wear, and while it fluttered in the air, she closed the gap to her asset and tackled her to the floor on the far side of the bed. The sheet fluttered across the room as first one and then a second bullet dragged themselves through, having shattered the glass and doing a number on the wall. A firearm was produced from a holster on the small of her back - smaller caliber, but easier to conceal. And if the bullet hit the right place, Amélie remembered reasoning to herself, she wouldn't need anything more powerful.

A silent alarm had been tripped from the breaking of the window, and it would only be a few more moments before suits and guns burst through the door.

The sound of shattered glass grinding against itself beneath slow boot falls met her ears. It was muted some by the rush of wind from the newfound lack of window, but she could hear it just the same.

Below her, Dr. Ziegler seemed to be trying to keep herself calm, but with as close as they were, she could feel her heart beating out of her chest. Amélie looked down and saw the woman staring at something to the side - the handgun she'd held had been knocked out of reach.

"Hey," she mouthed, trying to get the doctor's attention, which seemed to work, as the woman turned, her blonde hair stuck to her face and neck with moisture. She looked confused, scared, and concerned. Amélie tipped her head slightly, before a slight smirk crossed her lips. "I have a plan," she said, though the plan did involve the first two suits through the door being killed by their assailant. That made her scowl, but it was the only way they'd get out of there alive. It was their job to protect this woman, and they knew full well that it might happen. An unfortunate reality of their line of work. They were her pawns, and they would draw out an opening.

Then the moment came. The door burst open, and she took position on the bed. Amélie watched as the large gunman, clothed in black and an ominous mask, effortlessly centered his pistol on the head of the first and pulled his trigger. He was dead before he could even call for backup. Teeth were bared, and she took her own aim just as the second shot was fired, killing the other guard who'd come in. They'd bought her mere moments, but she put them to use, and the first bullet hit the assassin right in his face. Only, it ricocheted into the ceiling, having broken his mask and little more. Eyes widened, and she squeezed the trigger again, and yet again.

But then the assailant did something she was not expecting. Smoke began to pour from his suit, obscuring her vision as he retreated. She leapt to her feet and ran to the shattered window, loosing two more bullets in his direction. Neither landed, and she swore, before putting the gun back in its holster.

"These men are hurt," Angela said, having gotten up at the same time and moved to their side. Both were already laid on their backs, but both had very large holes in their heads.

"They're dead, Dr. Ziegler," Amélie corrected. It had been a calculated, cold decision on her part, but it was one she knew most any in her position, with her training would have made.

"They _won't_ be if we hurry!" She said, and Amélie raised an eyebrow.

"What are you playing at?"

"No time, I need you to get my bag." So she did.


	3. Madrid

Gears creaked as the brick and mortar slid upwards before her. Amélie's eyes fixed on the patterns, watching the lines as they passed evenly before her. A single lamp flickered overhead with the unstable power being delivered. Of course with this facility's proximity to the warfront in Spain, it made complete sense. She'd been descending for just over a minute now, but she could still tell when a blast went off near a power line, or an EMP detonated. The infrastructure struggled to keep up, but this building was special; it was the Overwatch tactical headquarters for the Gibraltar region, and she was en route to deliver another briefing.

Everything was finally coming together.

In the three months since the hotel incident, the assassin's origins had been traced to Talon. Bullets from the scene had been the beginning, and it was all building to a head. Some agents had even had their memories altered to erase the information about their surveillance and investigation—so eager were they to finally root out the terror organization that they wanted there to be no indication that Overwatch knew what they did.

They wanted to catch them completely off their guard.

Arrivals to the facility had been staggered. False mission briefings had been sent. Details using the proper channels were all in place to make this operation look like it was going to be a massive support mission for the front lines of the war, when really, their target was Talon.

It had also been three months since she'd seen Gérard. He'd been working the field and gathering intel, following immediately after the assassin in a hot pursuit. His instincts had paid off, and they didn't lose the trail until Madrid. Tech analysis had been able to hone in on his destination, and he'd been pulled off the hunt, and told to report here.

That was two weeks ago.

The elevator screeched to a halt as a metallic door thankfully came into view. Amélie stepped forward, lowering the glasses from her eyes to allow a retinal scan that interrupted its smooth surface to prove that she at least had the living eyes of Amélie Lacroix.

"State your access code," a familiar computerized voice beckoned. Amélie complied, straightening herself and fixing her glasses before tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The computer thanked her by opening the door after a series of hydraulic pressure seals were released.

This facility was off the grid and airtight. She'd only learned about its existence from a physically encrypted message from Dr. Regis. Initially, it was a further reprimand for her boorish behavior, but key phrases tipped her off. An hour of decoding later, and she had a completely different message that told her where to be and when, and specifically which stack of papers she needed to bring.

Why she was giving the briefing on a mission she'd only been marginally involved in planning was beyond her. The higher counter-terror agents had taken a divested interest here, but had left the busywork to her. Typical, she thought with a sigh.

A long concrete hallway with blue-white lighting sprawled in front of her, the fluorescent lights giving off a characteristic buzz that muted the sound of her footsteps against the floor. Another metal door was at the far end and, reaching it, she deposited her papers on a shelf before spreading her arms and legs for a body scan.

Once again, the computers responsible for security confirmed that she was who she said she was, and opened the doors, granting her access to what could be considered a surprisingly simple office. A few desks were organized together, and on her entry, the analysts there paused briefly. One or two she knew, but the rest were strangers to her. Another sigh, and she regarded the walls.

It was laid out identically to almost every other Overwatch field office she'd been to, and so she knew exactly where she needed to go. This much would have been a surprise, if she didn't know exactly how much effort the organization went through to keep these facilities a secret. A few more footsteps, and she opened the door to a large conference room. Women and men were chattering, papers scattered over the table, and a large dynamic map was projected onto one of the walls.

"Well, let's get started, then," she said, letting her eyes scan over the crowd as she made her way to the front of the room. Finding Gérard, she had a hard time finding it within herself to smile, despite the one that lit up his face when their eyes met. Papers were deposited on the table, and everyone filtered into their seats. Amélie opened her folder and set herself into the same routine she'd done countless times before. A few pages were handed to the agents directly to her left.

"As some of you may know, three months ago in Geneva, Dr. Angela Ziegler was attacked by a would-be assassin. Our intervention saved her, and Agent Lacroix followed after the assassin. Between his efforts and ballistic analysis of bullets from the scene, we were able to determine that the assassin was directly affiliated with Talon." She turned to the display and tapped a few entries on the interface, bringing up a fuzzy picture of a man in a white mask and dark jacket.

"We believe this is the man responsible for the attack, an agent from Talon who we know only as 'Reaper.' This is the first time we've been successful in repelling his attack, and we got lucky.

"Lacroix was able to pursue him on foot to Madrid, where tech was able to ascertain his destination. We have been building an attack strategy since."

Amélie paused and shifted to the map proper, and the graphics that had been prepared. As she spoke, it would follow her words and illustrate what she was trying to demonstrate.

"This warehouse in the shipping district is where we believe one of Talon's most prominent operations bases is hidden. Our intel has a few low-level offenders lurking in the vicinity, and several of the local vagrants have ties to the terror group.

"We do not have blueprints of the building, as it predates modern record-keeping practices in construction. And since it was designed as a cold storage facility, our EM scans have been fruitless in providing anything more than a rudimentary building plan. This means it's probably safe to assume the walls are lead-lined; this building might contain anything."

A few more interface buttons were tapped, and the map tilted into a three-dimensional view of the building and the surrounding rubble. A large hole had been carved into the roof of the building, whether by a bomb or by shrapnel or by some other act of providence, and the map highlighted it to their view.

"The plan is for Agent Lacroix to make his way by foot to the building, and after disabling any security measures over this breach, infiltrate the building. The key objective here is surveillance of the building. We need to know personnel, security, and any key details of the structure. After a survey, he will come out the same way he went in.

"As our ability to penetrate the building with EM signal is inhibited, there is a good chance that communications will be intermittent at best from within. If ninety minutes pass without contact, Lacroix will be considered a casualty, and the mission aborted." The last phrase caught in her throat, and her gaze fixed on her husband, looking for some confirmation that everything would be okay. But in his eyes, behind the stolid exterior he wore, she could see that same fear she held. While other missions had been dangerous, they paled in comparison. There were too many variables, and they were operating with only a fraction of the intel they usually had.

"Are there any questions?" Amélie knew there would be one or two, probably, but she wished there wouldn't be. A flurry of emotion swirled inside her; anger and hurting at Gérard for his sudden departure and silence toward her, disappointment at his recklessness, uneasiness about the mission, and fear that he wouldn't be coming back.

"Why did Talon target some doctor?" The voice was that of one of the junior analysts, and it broke the silence of waiting. For that much, she was thankful. That, and it gave her something to distract herself with. Thinking back, she managed a smile.

"I asked the same question myself immediately after the attack. Two of our agents died to protect her, taking bullets to the skull. But she brought them back with something she called 'nanobots.' Both agents made a full recovery, and were honorably discharged. I watched them die, and she brought them back. If any doctor is deserving of Talon's attention, it's Dr. Ziegler."

Gérard stood then as well, and turned to the analyst. "We also believe that it was an attempt by Talon to not only eliminate the doctor, but also to stab at Overwatch, and to make a statement that they were to be feared. But we've had them running ever since."

And that was exactly what bothered Amélie. It was too easy. Talon was never this easy, or this reckless. They'd been effective at stopping them in the past, but she wouldn't have thought them desperate enough to take a potshot at a doctor in Geneva.

"Are there any more questions?" She asked, and silence hung thick in the air.

"When do we start?"

* * *

The hours passed quickly after the briefing. Amélie spent her time as she usually did, tapping her pen against the table while copiously pouring over what intel there was. And given the high stakes and the high risk for this mission, it was completely essential for her to know every detail. Or so she reasoned. But with this there was precious little she could study. All they'd been able to ascertain was personal data on the guards and vagrant sentinels. It could easily be that this building was empty, and that tech had given chase to the red herring, but it didn't feel like that.

Perimeter scans and infrared surveillance showed tight patrols around the base, but Lacroix-no, Gérard, she mentally corrected-would be bypassing that entirely. A grappling hook and customized climbing and scaling gear gave him access where few others could go, and allowed him to move naturally along walls and rooftops. So getting over the guards' heads, literally, would not be a challenge.

No, the challenge was the roof. So as to not attract attention, they'd been forced to minimize their surveillance efforts. Some believed that Talon had some way of knowing when they were being watched. However, with a hole as substantial as what they were targeting, there was no way they didn't have some sort of security there. The question, then, was of what was there. Gérard had worked as much security detail as she had, so he knew just as much as she how many security measures they might encounter - and how to counter them. But the uncertainty was staggering, to say the least.

Usually she would be able to work through the material once, maybe twice from the briefing to the zero hour. But their intelligence on this mission was so sparse that she'd been through it all six times by now. Gérard was no doubt already suited up and en route to the district. He'd studied the maps more than anyone, besides maybe her. But then, he'd had more time with them than she.

That was another thing that bothered her. The decision to go forward with this mission had been made entirely without her say. While there was nothing procedurally wrong with it, it hadn't happened since she had taken over his missions operations. And there hadn't been any notable failures since. Nor had there been any missions grounded in so much uncertainty, and she wished she'd had the opportunity to speak against it. Never mind that he was her husband.

Perhaps that was why she'd been excluded from the decision-making process. Or perhaps Dr. Regis had done something to sabotage her. Lord knew he disliked her enough. It was infuriating that, just because he'd been sucking up to Dr. Ziegler, she was still getting heat for having done her job.

The frustration caused the pen she'd been tapping against the table to bounce free, and she watched it roll along the table and fall to the floor. Free, but lacking momentum, and it eventually fell into the grout between the tiles. Not only at a loss for its freedom, but now also stuck in a lifeless state. Her eyes fixed on it, and Amélie sighed. It was close enough to the zero hour to justify taking up her position in the ops room, so she shut the folder and rose from the table. And only a moment was taken to retrieve the pen from its resting place on the floor, and she made her way through the familiar complex.

* * *

Pressure sensors, an ultraviolet cage, and a closed-circuit camera. Those were the only security measures Gérard had encountered on his way in. By themselves, not hard to nullify, but in concert they had proved something of a challenge. It was simple, but effective, true to Talon's modus operandi. Still, Gérard was better. Pressure sensors were tricked, the camera blocked, and the cage disrupted by a series of prisms. If their system had been more up to date, they might have noticed the momentary latency that had been introduced, but fortunately the mission was able to proceed, and Gérard had disappeared inside.

That had been nearly eighty minutes ago.

As their analysis had predicted, they had lost all contact once he'd disappeared within the building, and the timer had begun. Analysts and technicians prattled, and she could hear the long distance surveillance checking in over her earpiece. If they knew he was there, none of the patrols were indicating as much.

The first thirty minutes had been expected. Amélie had taken to reviewing the extraction plan during that time, studying the holomap of the surrounding area that hovered luminously over a large table at the center of the ops room, and tracing the various routes that the asset could take.

Usually the fact that the 'asset' was her husband didn't matter, but she knew it was different this time. That single fact had her more anxious than she was comfortable admitting. Couple that with her upset at his nearly-quarter-year absence, and she reasoned it was completely rational that her nerves were betraying her.

That led to where she was now. Her mind had begun playing through all of the horrible possibilities, and she found herself grinding her teeth and pacing anxiously. Each moment that passed brought a new scenario into her mind, a new end to their happiness. She needed to focus, but it was proving exceptionally difficult. Amélie could feel her heart beating quickly, her shoulders tense with the stress as her flats tapped quietly on the floor of the low-lit room. Eyes fixed on the single building on the holomap where she knew Gérard was, and she finally recognized what she was feeling.

Helplessness.

There was nothing that she could do.

Gérard had been silent for nearly the entire mission, since announcing his entry, and the time was almost up. And there was absolutely nothing that she could do to help him. No way that she could reach him. No piece of intel that she could pass along. No clean escape she could guide him through. No, Gérard was completely on his own.

Five more minutes passed with her thinking on these things, before static finally crackled through the speaker in the room.

"Spider to Nest, do you read me? Over."

"This is Home Nest, reading you clearly, Spider," Amélie replied, masking the catch in her voice that signaled her relief. "What's your status? Over."

"In sight of the exit. Progress is slow. Internal security measures are tighter than we thought. ETA five minutes. Over."

"Roger, Spider. Be careful. Over." Her eyes had grown misty at hearing his voice, which was something she had not anticipated. Nor even wanted. She was mad at him, wasn't she? The frustration she'd felt at his silence these past weeks had built to a head, but now it was confused, and intermingled with euphoria at knowing he was okay.

"Amélie, you should see this," another voice called to her, off the com line. She turned her gaze to a bespectacled analyst who was facing her, his back turned to a computer screen. A few keys tapped on his keyboard, and a layer of colors rendered on top of the holomap. A pulsing yellow arc was growing, and was almost about to engulf the target facility.

"What are we looking at?" She asked, golden eyes flashing to him from the display.

"Intel from command suggested a new protocol had been fed to Madrid from the Atlantic Omnium - Sterilization. They've launched a few gunships, and Spain has called for a retreat. The yellow circle is their radius." Amélie swallowed hard. 'Sterilization' meant that, with enough targets in proximity, the Madrid Omnium gunship would launch either a small thermonuclear warhead or a dirty bomb. Machines didn't care about radiation, after all.

"How much time?"

"One minute to detection, three from launch to detonation." A flurry of activity erupted in the room, as the operations crew in the facility began moving towards the safe room. It would hold them over long enough to survive the fallout, but there was another concern - this operation needed to be aborted.

"Spider, this is Home Nest, do you read? Over." Another few moments of silence passed before Amélie tried again. "Gérard, do you copy? Over."

"This is Spider, read you clearly Nest. ETA to exit is still five minutes. Over." He sounded annoyed, but she didn't care.

"Negative, Spider," she called back, "you need to get as deep within that facility as possible, as quickly as possible. Do you understand? Over." A moment of silence.

"I do not copy. Come again. Over."

"Omnius has enacted a sterilization protocol. You have four minutes until impact. Get as deep into the facility as possible and hide. We will come for you once the threat is clear. Over." She felt the sadness and the helplessness begin to filter in again. Panic set in, and she prayed for his compliance.

"I copy, Home Nest. I'll be safe. I love you, Amélie. Spider over and out." And with that, his com was silent.

"I love you, too." Her voice faltered quietly, and a few of the people in the room paused, looking to her at this rare display of emotion and affection.

"Amélie, you need to get to the safe room, too." It was the analyst who'd brought the Omnius threat to light, and he spoke gently, his face full of concern. Tears had begun welling up in her eyes behind shaded glasses of her own, and she nodded once, gathering up some papers and shutting off the display of the holomap.

The next few minutes passed like a blur, until Amélie found herself in the midst of a group of other men and women, huddled in a cement room, waiting for the inevitable. All at once it struck, the room lurching back and forth, shaking violently as dust fell from the ceiling, and canned goods rattled in their cases on shelves. The lights faltered once, steadied, and then went black, and the shaking finally began to die down.

It was over.


	4. Connection

Her eyes were shut. Amélie had spent the past several hours trying not to exist, to blend into the background here, but despite her best efforts, she was still here. Consciousness may have eluded her for a time, but she didn't care. Her ears had long since drowned out the noise of the hospital waiting room where she sat.

This one, like many others in the vicinity, was busy with triage efforts as a result of the attack three days before. The suddenness of the Omnium's sanitization protocol was devastating. But whether for the system's efficiency at eradicating life, or for the fact that Madrid had been largely evacuated already, the hospitals were largely able to keep up.

She'd seen a few people coming in. Some were far worse than others, in manners too gruesome to truly remember. She did not envy the doctors here who worked to treat these patients, or to ease their suffering until they passed on. Some part of her hated the violence, and the senselessness of it all, but another part of her knew that there was no point to it. Overwatch had been created to fight the Omnium and end the war. Her struggle alongside Gérard against Talon was a distraction. They were two different enemies, and they fought in two different ways on two different fronts.

But the Omnium targeted all humanity for destruction: Talon, Overwatch, and otherwise. This attack had proven just that.

They suspected that the system had come up with a new type of dirty bomb - one that used the power of a thermonuclear warhead to more effectively spread the radiation wash that usually came with such devices. A total of six detonations across Madrid had pushed the front line back and out of the city. Their field office had been decimated, and it had taken Overwatch nearly ten hours from the initial attack to recover the agents trapped underground.

Their priority, though, had been on recovering Gérard and the rest of the surveillance team. Medical had rightly advised that they needed saving first if they were to survive, and Medical had been right. One of the warheads had detonated only twelve blocks away from the building Gérard had been infiltrating, and the angle had been such as to cast as much radiation through that hole in the ceiling as possible. Of course, the building collapsed after, but not before receiving a triple dose of lethal radiation, inside and out.

The surveillance teams had been annihilated, and Gérard had managed to survive only by hiding himself inside a large, old freezer. But he had still received enough radiation to redline the meters on his suit. Without any hesitation, he was brought here for supportive care. The doctors were working on him, and discussing their options, but Amélie already knew what was going to happen.

Gérard was going to die.

Amélie had only learned of his fate after arriving at the hospital, some six hours after her husband. One of the recovery agents had stayed behind to liaison with the doctors here, and she'd been given the same briefing they had. She herself was no medical expert, but she'd read enough reports to know.

No one could survive that much radiation poisoning. Even with all of the supportive care in the world, he only had maybe two weeks left before his body shut down, DNA and biological processes scrambled by the excess latent energy in his system. This was how dirty bombs worked - a slow, excruciating death over time, with a fraction of the destruction.

And so Amélie sat in a chair whose discomfort had long faded. Like the background noise of the hospital, her body had gotten used to it. Efforts to disappear and make time simultaneously stop and fly had been denied by the universe, and it was all she could do to wait for the inevitable.

Death was a constant in their line of work. It was always nearby, and it was always changing sides. Some days, Talon was at its mercy; some days, Overwatch. But this was different somehow. On a mission, it was always expected that it could happen. It would be sudden. And Amélie had a set of prepared reactions for what she would do in the event of Gérard's death in the line of duty.

But now he was dying. The recovery agent had said they had not been able to restore consciousness while en route, and she quietly prayed it would stay that way. Then she wouldn't have to suffer with him. Then she wouldn't have to lay by his bed, constantly wondering when death would come to him. She wouldn't have to say goodnight to him each night, knowing that he might not last wake up in the morning. There would be no sleeping until he was gone, anyway, but at least with him unconscious, she didn't have to stay by his side. There would be no point, if he wasn't going to wake up.

The possibility of that lingered in her mind, though. She'd be trapped here in this hospital, waiting with him for death to come. It had been months since she'd even seen or heard from him, and now it was going to end for him with prolonged suffering. One goodbye would have been hard enough, but she wouldn't even get that.

Did she even want it?

Amélie had never considered herself a particularly emotional woman. While most women swooned over babies or weddings or dances or romantic gestures, she had never seen the point. It was isolating, but also a source of identity and esteem for her. So coming to grips with the fact that her emotions had become a maelstrom within her just added more confusion to the mix. Hurt, betrayal, sadness, hopelessness, despair, loneliness, fear, anger, and now a degrading sense of self. Tears spilled through the closed eyelids and down her cheeks as she clutched her arms to herself.

No matter how much she wanted to, she could not just pull herself together. She felt trapped, and panic started to set in again, which made the tears worse. All at once the noise of the hospital came rushing in, with every little uncomfortable fold in the fabric of the chair beneath her echoing into tired joints that were stiff from sitting still for so long. More tears, and she held herself more tightly.

"Mrs. Lacroix?" The voice belonged to a young doctor. She hadn't even heard her approaching. The ragged woman looked up, her eyes swollen and red, lines of tears leaving stains on her pale skin. Amélie knew she didn't look like herself, but there was nothing she could do about it.

"I'm Dr. Marcela Ruíz," she said, and Amélie regarded her for a moment. She wore an expression of concern that spoke more loudly than any words she might have to say, her brown eyes betraying the prognosis she would bring. "Could you please come with me? There are some things we need to discuss."

* * *

Sunlight glinted in through the window and shone on Amélie's face as yet another vista of the Alps over the French countryside came into view. The bullet train on which she rode moved at speeds she couldn't quite comprehend, and had just passed through a mountain. She'd left the area outside of Madrid that morning, and now, by noon, was already most of the way to her destination.

Gérard was unconscious, and the doctors were glad of it. His organs were shutting down extremely quickly, and they estimated he only had a few days to live - instead of the weeks she'd predicted. The doctor had offered her condolences, and Amélie had allowed herself to ask if there was anything that could be done.

But she hadn't gotten the answer she expected.

Dr. Ruíz had read a journal article recently about a theoretical way to successfully treat severe radiation poisoning and reverse its effects. While she admitted that the majority of the article went over her head in its discussions of energy levels and electrons and quantum states, she said that the doctor in question had experienced overwhelming success in experiments with rats, pigs, and even some stray dogs and cats he'd rounded up from some of the quarantine zones around Chernobyl, Istanbul, Budapest, and Krakow. While he hadn't been cleared for human trials yet, Dr. Ruíz was convinced that his methods would work.

All it took was a phone call to Dr. Regis to get the go-ahead to find this doctor and request his aid. Tickets had been arranged, and she'd left the very next day.

His name was Dr. Zian. Amélie didn't recognize it, but that didn't matter. A quick search of the web had revealed a number of other articles written by the same doctor, and saw him consulting with anonymous would-be patients on web forums. Precious little was known about who he was, but they'd been able to find his address in Switzerland with a little bit of magic from Tech.

An email thanking them had already been sent. This much was extremely rare from Amélie, and they knew it.

Her destination was an apartment in Zürich. They'd been able to get the address and even floor and unit, but no proper name. For all they knew, Dr. Zian was a woman.

Amélie had rehearsed the encounter a dozen times in her mind already, but found herself focusing on the introduction. After all, she was to be the face of Overwatch here, asking this doctor to come save one of their most valuable operatives. But wasn't she also a wife coming to plead with the doctor to save her husband?

Something about that thought was off-putting. Amélie could not imagine herself doing anything like that. Begging was not something she was even remotely good at. She didn't even like asking favors. Forgiveness? Asking for that had been a tough pill to swallow, and it had taken a good bit of consideration to get her to send that email to Tech. Hiding behind Overwatch gave her some excuse this way. She wasn't the one asking. Overwatch was.

So why wasn't she?

It was a question that began to eat at her mind as she stared at the steadily approaching mountains. Was she still in shock? Did some part of her not want Gérard to wake up? Were the claims being made of Dr. Zian too extraordinary to believe? The fact that she was on this train felt confusing and boggling. Traveling halfway across Europe for a one-in-a-million chance was already well beyond her comfort zone. Maybe her lack of emotion was a defense mechanism. It would certainly explain the dread she faced at the prospect of going to Dr. Zian's apartment in Zürich.

But there was something more to it than that. She could feel it. There was some small part of her, some angry, bitter, hurting crevice inside her that didn't want Gérard to wake up. The realization of that part horrified her, and she felt her face go pale. Was she still so angry at his disappearance and absence that she now hoped for that which she dreaded? Amélie could feel the muscles of her neck and head beginning to tense, as a knot found its way onto her face.

Eyes pinched shut, and she was suddenly grateful that she'd paid for the upgrade to first class. Leaning her forehead against the cold glass of the window, she let the tears flow down her cheeks before the sun was once again hidden by the carved out tube of a tunnel.

* * *

A brick façade stood as the newest building on the block, and the most well-maintained among them. However, that wasn't saying much. In a city as old as Zürich, it was something of a miracle that the permits had been allowed half a century ago to build what some would consider an abomination. Even by today's standards, Amélie thought the building looked rather bland. Especially when compared to some of the solid light architecture that was being used everywhere in the heart of the city, this small brick building was certainly nothing to write home about.

But for Dr. Zian, this WAS home. As plain as it was, this four-and-a-half-story brick and mortar apartment complex was now her greatest hope for saving her husband. And there it was again, as Amélie stood in the cold mist off the lake, staring at this building from across the street. She doubted if she wanted him saved.

Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, she'd reasoned on the trip from the train station to one of the city's farthest reaches. If she tried to focus on the positive things of losing him, and what that could mean for her in terms of the good it would be, then it stood to reason that it could be a way to hopefully make the loss easier. That wasn't what worried her - wanting those things more than his survival was.

An antique blue coupe betrayed the doctor's presence as Amélie stepped out to cross the street. There was almost no traffic in this part of town, and the road bore the uninterrupted sheen of the moisture it collected from the air. Thankfully, it wasn't cold enough to freeze, but the sun had only just set. Street lamps lit the fog, spreading their yellow haze about the area, reflecting off that same sheen. It was almost to the point where the lamps themselves could not be seen, and Amélie shuddered. She was not dressed enough for this.

The building's large oak front door surrendered to her easily with a squeeze of its ancient bronze handle, and she was glad to be out of the weather that was only getting colder and damper. Within was not as well lit as without, but for an entryway for an old building like this, that made sense, and she took a moment to take in her surroundings.

This foyer was large, and a staircase spiraled up all four floors in a square pattern, wooden bannisters the only security for those who would climb. Dim wall sconces spread enough light to see, but the deep stains on the wood combined with the overall darkness of the decor with its faded, dusty colors that had once been rich made for a building where, at least at night, outside seemed almost more welcoming than inside.

Sounds from the various living units became more apparent the longer she stood and observed. At least two couples were arguing, one was throwing things. Various news stations reported the same stories in at least four languages, and there was at least one person attempting to emulate a cooking show. Two more people were cooking, as well, and that's when Amélie noticed something missing.

There was no cigarette smoke.

Usually buildings like this were full of people who, despite heavy taxes and levies against them, lived lives that were too sorrowful to bear without the aid of nicotine. And so they, like so many for so many years before, turned to cigarettes, slowly killing themselves to leech out their sorrow. But not here.

This was a most curious observation. Instead of the overpowering stench of tobacco, Amélie could smell the food being made, a few different forms of beer and alcohol, and no sewage (which was especially remarkable, given how many in establishments like this tended to stay drunk most of the time).

Her hand gripped the bannister, and Amélie began to climb. Dr. Zian lived in apartment 425, which meant it was the top floor, and was the large end-unit at the back of a ten-unit-long hallway. There was no elevator, and so she climbed up every story. A moment was taken to catch her breath, before she made her way down the hallway. Solid light woven in a simple pattern on the ceiling began to glow on a timer, giving more warmth to the place, and making it seem less dreary. That much was a good sign, she supposed.

And here finally, was unit 425. Amélie raised a hand, ready to knock, but hesitated a moment. A thousand thoughts and feelings ran through her mind, and she closed her eyes and exhaled.

'Here goes nothing.'

* * *

Three knocks on the door, and Amélie could hear shuffling from beyond it. Someone was definitely approaching, but from the footfalls, they sounded light and feminine. Whoever it was wasn't wearing shoes, and she began to wonder if she'd roused the poor doctor from some sleep or stupor, until the door opened. But what she was greeted with was not at all what she expected.

Dr. Angela Ziegler.

Her hair was half-undone, and heavy circles hung under her eyes. A blouse was stained with some sort of condiment that had spilled long ago, the top few buttons undone and the bottom untucked. Beneath it, the bottoms of black yoga shorts extended, revealing most of her lean legs to the air.

Amélie could feel herself tense at this encounter, and as recognition filtered into Angela's tired blue eyes, she could see the knot forming on her forehead as well.

"Oh, it's YOU," Angela said, forcing herself to rectify her posture slightly, as though she was preparing for some sort of outburst.

"I'm…just as surprised as you are, Dr. Ziegler," Amélie replied after a deep breath, trying to let the tension out of her shoulders and her voice, "can…can I come in?" Angela barely lofted a brow, sighing to herself as she swished the door open wider to allow her new guest access to the apartment.

Amélie stepped inside, and the apartment was in shambles. Papers lay scattered about the floor. Empty plates and take-out cartons sat piled in various locales, though the air was devoid of the odor of decaying food. Still, dishes were piled in the sink and dishwasher, and the trashcan that she could see was overflowing. Despite the generous size of the apartment, it had been turned into something of a dump.

"I apologize for the mess," Angela said from the next room, having evidently returned to whatever task she'd been attending before, "I've…had a rough few months."

"There's no need to apologize, Dr. Ziegler," Amélie replied, and she actually meant it. "I don't hold the lives of others in my hands on a daily basis; I'm in no position to judge." At that, Angela looked up and turned about.

"You also haven't been letting them slip through your fingers," she replied, letting out a sigh as she reached for a wine glass. It was then that Amélie saw the box of red wine on the table in front of her. "Three more in just twenty four hours. I'm on a roll."

"I'm sure it's not all that bad," Amélie said, making her way to the living room and sitting in a rather comfortable armchair opposite Angela—after clearing it, of course.

"Ten. In three months. Plus three more today from a stupid programming error." Angela looked to Amélie and leaned forward, her elbows finding her knees, the goblet thankfully empty enough to allow her to tilt it without the drink spilling (though not that the carpet would mind - it seemed stained enough).

"Dr. Ziegler, I-…" Amélie began, though really, she didn't have anything to say.

"I'm not in the mood to be lectured to, Mrs. Lacroix," she answered, narrowing her eyes.

"I wasn't going to." But what was she going to do? She didn't actually have anything to say in response to Angela's predicament. Silence hung in the air for a moment, and finally she looked at the doctor once more, catching her eyes.

"Do you know what it's like to lose people who were counting on you to keep them alive, Mrs. Lacroix?" Angela's question struck a chord with Amélie, and she frowned. She had. Even despite the ones that Dr. Ziegler herself had brought back, Amélie had lost people who were counting on her. She was in danger of losing another.

"Yes," she finally answered, looking back to Angela, and the woman's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "I've…been having trouble letting go of what happened in Geneva. Two of my agents rushed in and died at a moment's notice. If I'd been in the van, I might have had a better chance at stopping the assassin sooner-…"

"They lived, Amélie." Angela interrupted, and Amélie looked down.

"They were revived after they died. After I chose to let them die." The words hung in the air, and Amélie wished she had a glass of the wine that Angela was trying to drown herself in. "It was a calculated effort. I knew they would be shot and killed the moment they stepped in. I knew they would come in, and I chose to use their deaths to gain an opportunity against the assassin."

That much visibly came as a shock to Angela, who sat up slightly.

"You…let them die?" Or worse, Amélie continued the thought. She may have actually decided they should die for her plan.

"We would all have laid down our lives to protect you, Dr. Ziegler," she replied, a look of concern knotting her face, "if our situations had been reversed, I would have taken the bullet just the same, and they would have taken their shot just as I did. I was just…lucky you were there."

For a few moments, Angela was quiet. "It's…not the same, though. I brought both of them back."

"I resolved to let them die, Dr. Ziegler," Amélie's voice was more forceful in that moment than she'd wanted, but it seemed to actually get through to the blue-eyed doctor, "in my dreams, every time I face the assassin, they both die, only in my dreams they don't wake up later.

"I've been worrying myself about it for the past three months. Even though they survived, and even though one of them came out of retirement, I calculated their deaths. I decided they were supposed to die as part of my plan, and my plan only barely worked. I haven't seen them, and I haven't heard from them. In my mind, to me, they basically ARE dead."

The resolution on Angela's face softened, and she managed something faintly resembling a smile. "That…actually makes sense," she replied, "when a patient recovers after signing the DNR, it's a very similar experience—almost surreal."

"It is," Amélie answered, taking a moment to wipe the mist out of her eyes that had apparently been growing there, "but there is a difference between our losses, Dr. Ziegler."

"And what's that?"

"While I decided that mine should die, you were working to save yours. No one can argue that you were trying to kill them—the same can't be said of me and my men."

And then Angela looked to Amélie, narrowing her eyes and studying her. It was the first time Amélie had had to endure this kind of scrutiny in a while, and she began to fidget just as the blonde doctor broke to speak.

"Things have changed for me since Geneva," she began, rising from the couch and beginning to make her way to the kitchen. The fridge was opened and a new box of wine was produced. "I haven't been able to get more than four hours of sleep at a time. I keep having nightmares, and some nights I just won't sleep at all. I've had some success in my research, but the deprivation is draining me empty." Amélie's eyes followed her, and she bore more and more concern for the woman.

"I could tell you were tired when I arrived, but I had no idea," she said, rising and following after the woman. "Do...you ever have to double take to make sure you didn't just see him in your apartment?" Angela's eyes widened, and she looked to Amélie directly.

"Some days I get so anxious I can't leave the shower without clearing the entire apartment with a pistol to make sure I'm actually alone. I've had solid UV-panes installed on every window to prevent intrusion, but it hasn't helped at all. I just get…"

"…paranoid." Amélie finished the sentence for her. Angela's eyes were beginning to water, and Amélie found her own as well. The months had been hard for her, too, but she was somewhat used to regularly questioning her own sanity. "It's very hard to hold a life in your hands."

Angela nodded, but didn't reply. Instead the two simply looked at one another, finding new understanding and acceptance in each other's eyes. Blue eyes were welcoming, and Amélie found her own golden stare reflected there, slowly opening. Her eyes really were quite beautiful.

"I never thanked you," Angela finally said, managing a small smile and coming closer to Amélie.

"I was just doing my job," Amélie replied, letting a gentle smile come to her lips, which Angela reflected. "I never thanked you for bringing my men back."

And at that, Angela broke the stare and began to chuckle. "Oh, you don't have to. Our mutual friend Samuel has tried that PLENTY of times." Ah, so that was it, Amélie let a small smirk on her lips as an eyebrow lofted.

"Did he send you a holorecorded speech?" The playfulness was evident in her tone, but Amélie was pretending to be quite serious. "I've heard he's quite fond of those."

"If only it was so simple," Angela replied, "he's had me declared a hero in all of the local papers, and writes weekly letters to the hospital administration 'requesting' my transfer." She bore a smirk on her face. "I never knew I could become so…desirable to your organization."

"Well, Dr. Regis IS persistent. There was once when he was pursuing a young Danish doctor named Pedersen that he visited the hospital where he worked every day for two years." Amélie emphasized the last words very strongly.

"Did he get what he wanted?"

"In…a manner of speaking. He received a paper with that doctor's signature." The two gazed at one another as Amélie hung the last detail in the air, and Angela waited for it.

"Resignation?" Angela tried.

"Ooh, so close! Dr. Pedersen was so put off by Dr. Regis' efforts that he filed a restraining order with Interpol." Angela gasped, choking back laughter as she held her hands over her mouth, and Amélie had to hold back her own as well, though she was failing. "Got him banned from every hospital in Denmark!"

And at that, the two burst out laughing, which carried on for some time. But it was more than just Dr. Regis' antics that carried the bellows from their bodies. Stress had been building up, and it needed a way out. Amélie knew that, and yet she couldn't bring herself to stop, and she could tell Angela was laughing for the same. Finally, after several minutes, and with stomachs sore from having nearly laughed themselves unconscious, it began to die down, and Amélie looked to Angela, finding her blue eyes again, a much lighter, more joyful smile shared between them.

The stare this time was gentler, but also more intense. They were relaxed and open, and Amélie began to feel a swell within herself as she began to gaze, and as Angela began to gaze back. There was a closeness there that had only just been forged, but it felt so much stronger than anything she'd ever felt before. And with that closeness came a longing - and she began to see it mirrored in Angela's eyes as well. Until she balked.

Angela's gaze turned to one side, her eyes peeling down towards the floor. "L-let me make you something to drink," she said quietly, embarrassment washing over her features, "would you care for some tea? It's about all I've got at the moment."

"Tea would be perfect," Amélie replied, her own smile beginning to knot with confusion. What WAS that just now? Even when she and Gérard had made love and were in the throes of their pleasure, she'd never felt anything like that. There was no denying that part of her wanted this woman, and yet…now? With Gérard in the hospital and dying…no, now was not the time for this. But she hadn't ever laughed like that with him.

"Have you eaten yet?" Angela's question brought Amélie back to the present, and she looked up, bewildered.

"Hm?" Amélie asked as the words processed into her mind. "Oh, no I haven't. Did you have something in mind?"

Simply, Angela suggested they order Pizza. There weren't enough clean dishes or ingredients to make anything, as Angela had explained, and while they waited, they worked together some at cleaning at least SOME of the mess. Though really, it would take an Overwatch cleanup crew two weeks with night shifts to fully recover the space. Or so Angela had claimed. Really, it wasn't all that bad, but the doctor said that her cleaning lady had quit almost a year ago, and she herself didn't have any time or energy at all to maintain the space.

Finally, and in timely fashion once the kitchen was in a more presentable state, a knock came at the door. Angela paid the delivery woman and tipped her well, before returning with the pie to the living room, and Amélie followed.

"So you never did tell me what brought you all the way out to Zürich," Angela finally said before taking a bite from one of her slices. It brought Amélie back down the rest of the way to reality, and she frowned.

"I'm looking for Dr. Shaheen Zian," she said, before setting her plate down. She couldn't talk about this while eating. "Our intelligence told me I could find him here."

"Really?" Angela let an eyebrow loft, and Amélie looked to her, confused. "What do you need Dr. Zian for?"

"There…was an operation near the Omnius front line in Madrid. Counter-terror against Talon. One of our agents infiltrated a base of theirs in an abandoned warehouse, only to be caught off-guard by a Sanitization Protocol. His body took the full brunt of the radiation, and the doctors are expecting that he has maybe a week to live." Why she left out Gérard's name was beyond her. Maybe she wanted it to be less personal. Maybe she wanted more of what she'd found before in Angela's eyes. Maybe she was just too scared to admit it had been him, or was in denial. She didn't quite know.

"Ah, so they'd heard of Dr. Zian's work with irradiated animals, and thought the researcher might help your agent." Amélie nodded, and Angela smirked. "Well, as you have probably guessed, there is no Dr. Zian here, but I do know the good doctor."

"Do you know where I might find him?" Angela's smirk grew.

"You're looking at him." Amélie did a double take, and Angela nodded, presenting herself.

"You're…you're Dr. Zian?" It didn't click.

"It's a pen-name to keep the boys off my back," Angela replied, "to play in a man's world, you need to pretend to be one."

Amélie scoffed for a moment, looking almost disgusted. "I hardly think that's fair, Dr. Ziegler," she said, "neither to yourself, nor to other women in your industry."

"And how many women ARE there in my industry, hm?" That was a question she did not know the answer to. "How many women are leading their fields, or are achieving widespread acclaim at their research? There are precious few of us, and I've experienced why.

"My first few papers were published with my given name. They showed much more promise and potential than any of the papers I've published since, and yet they went nowhere. The name 'Angela' robbed me and the medical community of any advancement or success, because so many old men don't believe a woman can push the bill. So I reinvented myself, and claimed a stage name.

"The first paper I published as Dr. Shaheen Zian was more or less a summary of the first three papers, documenting all of the work I'd done across a decade, and all of the results I'd achieved. Not only was it met with wide acclaim and published to a number of journals, but no one even NOTICED that my data and methods were the same as the papers I published as me. I even had full pages that were copied word for word, and no one noticed."

By the end, Amélie's eyes were wide - it was an incredible story of an incredible injustice. "So you continued publishing as Dr. Zian, then?"

Angela nodded with a sigh. "It's the fastest way to help the most people. I'm so close to a major breakthrough with my nanobots that I can't afford to be stopped by the fact that I have two X chromosomes instead of a Y. I'll fight that battle later."

It was an injustice Amélie knew herself. While certainly not as bad as what her mother had experienced, she had faced more scrutiny and doubt as a woman in the control seat for so many missions than any of her male counterparts. Even Gérard had commented on the fact that she had worked twice as hard to be where she was as any of her peers. She was respected now, but she had fought tooth and nail to earn that respect.

"You're not alone in that much," she said finally with a weak smile, "I've also had to 'play with the boys', so to speak."

"Then you know how stupid they are," Angela smirked, and Amélie could only let her own smirk come out as well.

"I have yet to find a man who can survey a landscape anywhere near as well as I can, but they all think they're so much better." Amélie's tone was laced with a tired bitterness that betrayed how much the extra stress was actually wearing on her, and she sighed, finally picking up her plate and beginning to eat her pizza.

"I'll go," Angela finally said after finishing a slice of her own, and Amélie looked up.

"Are you sure, Dr. Ziegler?"

Angela nodded, and replied. "Yes, and please, call me Angela, Mrs. Lacroix."

To which Amélie smirked and replied. "Then you should call me Amélie." Angela repeated the name, and the two continued to eat their food, reminded by their bodies that they'd been neglecting their stomachs all day.

Once the pizza was done and the box stacked with the rest of the trash, Angela invited Amélie to join her on the couch for a marathon of cheap American horror films. While unfamiliar with them, Amélie consented when the point was made of their being "so bad they're good." One movie passed with the two making fun of the unrealistic effects and bad acting, and another was put on as the hours of the night wore away, and the two fell asleep beside one another long before the movie would end.


	5. Flight

A salty, savory scent filled the air, and Amélie breathed it in deeply. Bacon simmered slowly on the skillet before her, slowly rending away its fat, while locking in all of its juicy goodness. She'd scrambled eggs, too, but not before a trip outside of the apartment to get the ingredients.

She'd been the first to wake, and had managed to gracefully slide out from under the doctor who'd been sleeping soundly beside her. Given how tired she'd been, and how little sleep she'd said she was getting lately, this was a blessing Amélie did not wish to disturb. Her own body clock had woken her with the sun, but Angela still slept soundly on the couch. She'd even managed to find a blanket for the doctor before she'd gone out, which allowed her to spread slightly. Not that it was particularly cold, but Amélie knew how much warmth another body could provide while sleeping, and how much it could be missed when it went away.

Though it was something she hadn't had to worry about for several months, and something she might never have to worry about again.

It was a thought that she was having a surprisingly easier time pushing from her mind. She herself felt like she'd slept more soundly last night, which made keeping her inner demons at bay that much easier. But there was more to it.

Dr. Ziegler represented hope. She represented a means to save her husband and the status quo of her life, and she felt like she'd made a real connection with the woman. After all, it wasn't just anyone she could sleep beside-Angela was only the second.

One by one, the strips of bacon in the skillet were flipped, and Amélie set them to slowly sizzle in their own grease. Proper bacon took time-Gérard had always preferred hers to what was served in the Overwatch mess halls and various hotels, but he didn't know that she usually woke herself up an hour earlier than usual to make it. And that was another reason she was making it: it was familiar, and it was comforting.

She'd slipped out on Angela, too, but that was by necessity. There was no bacon here, and nor were there any eggs, nor bread. So when the sun woke her from her sleep, she managed some quieter cleaning before borrowing the doctor's keys to go to market. With the meat and the eggs and a freshly-baked baguette, breakfast would only be another hour. And now that baguette was being sliced apart, and set with the scrambled eggs on two of the plates they'd cleaned the night before.

All that was left was the bacon, which was minutes away from being done.

Amélie figured it best to wake the doctor then, too. She figured they'd fallen asleep near two in the morning, so now at ten, it would have been a full night's sleep. That, and their plane was scheduled to depart in three hours.

Soon enough, the bacon was finished, and Amélie set the slightly crispy meat on a disposable towel to drain it for a few moments, before resting it in its final place on the plate. Finally, it was a complete breakfast.

Both plates were brought back to the living room, and she set them down on the table in front of the sleeping doctor. Even with her hair a mess and a small line of drool coming from the corner of her open mouth as she snored lightly, Amélie couldn't help but find her pretty. A strand of hair from her bangs threatened to enter her mouth, and Amélie brushed it gently away, tucking it behind her ear to wake her.

Angela inhaled deeply, smiling as she began to roll and stretch. Only then did her eyes gently open, and she lofted one eyebrow.

"First you scold me, then you sleep with me, now you make me breakfast?" There was a playfulness in her tone that Amélie recognized, but was unprepared for. "If I didn't know better, Amélie, I'd say you were trying to seduce me." She could feel her cheeks flush with color, and the cook backed away, looking away and tucking an arm behind her back.

"I-I thought y-you might be hungry," she said, "so I made you something..." Her voice trailed off, and Amélie could feel a rush of emotion coming on-but this was far different, and far more welcome than what she'd experienced just two days before. But thankfully, a hand on her arm brought her back to the present.

"It's lovely, Amélie, thank you," Angela smiled warmly, and Amélie could feel the tension melting and breaking apart within her. Angela reached for her plate and the included fork, and began to eat what was there, and Amélie followed suit. For a few minutes, they were silent, enjoying their food before Angela finally got to the bacon. It was a point of pride for Amélie, and she was not disappointed by the woman's reaction, eagerly proclaiming it the best bacon she'd ever eaten.

Angela yawned, stretching and scratching the sternum exposed by her half buttoned blouse, and Amélie caught herself staring before forcing herself to return to her food. Thankfully, Angela didn't seem to notice, and the two finished their breakfast.

"How long do you think it will take?" Amélie asked finally, reaching to take the other woman's plate, and Angela frowned.

"Based on what you told me, it could take weeks or months. Even years, depending on how far your agent's condition has deteriorated." And there was that sinking feeling again. She hadn't felt it since last night, but all of the emotion seemed to rush back in. Years. She'd already lost three months; now she could lose years. Amélie could feel her cheeks drain of color, and judging by how Angela shifted, she could see the upset.

"What's wrong, Amélie?" She asked, reaching for her hand. "You can tell me." Silence took the moment, and Amélie could feel a strange panic starting to set in.

"N-nothing," she lied, "it's nothing. I just...thought of leaving this mess alone for that long." A smirk hid the torrent within her, and she prayed Angela would buy it. And for the moment, at least, she seemed to. "In any case, we probably shouldn't stay too long. There's a jet waiting to take us to Paris."

"Well in that case," Angela said, rising to her feet and stretching again, "we should probably get ready." Amélie rose as well, raising an eyebrow.

"What is this 'we?' I'm just as ready as when I walked in the door." And Angela ceded the victory this time.

"Well, I suppose there wouldn't be a point in offering you the shower first, then, would there?" Amélie had made her way to the kitchen to begin cleaning the items she'd employed in making breakfast, and she shook her head.

"I think I'll be okay for now," she said, turning over her shoulder to look at her host, "but I do think we should try to hurry." And evidently there was something in what she said that caused a gentle laugh from Angela as she exited towards the bedroom. She had a very pleasant laugh.

"Umm, Amélie," Angela's voice came from the other room, and the woman cleaning dishes looked toward the door. "I...can I ask a favor of you?" The doctor was standing in the doorway she'd just passed through, gripping one arm and staring at the floor.

"What is it?" Amélie asked as warmly as she could manage, with a smile.

"It's...rather embarrassing, actually, but...could you...come with me?" Amélie lifted her eyebrows slightly.

"To the shower?" She asked, trying to get some clarification. Why did her heart just skip a beat?

"Just...no, you wouldn't have to shower with me, just...stay in the bathroom and talk with me," she said, making eye contact finally, and Amélie swallowed back the uneasiness she suddenly and inexplicably felt. "I...well, I've never felt safe, since Geneva, but maybe...oh, I sound like a fool." Her blue eyes were averted once more, and Amélie smiled gently, making her way to the doorway, where she took Angela's hands.

"I'll keep you safe," she said with a smile, trying to meet her eyes again, "you'll never have to be afraid while I'm with you." Angela's eyes pinched shut, and she clasped Amélie's hands tightly.

"I needed that," she said, finally opening her eyes and looking back at Amélie, "thank you."

* * *

Once Angela had stripped and stepped into the shower, Amélie had followed her into the bathroom. Despite the size of the apartment, the bathroom, she felt, left much to be desired.

"As a curiosity, what's your rent like?" Amélie finally asked after a few minutes of silence, taking a seat on the padded cover of the toilet. Angela's laugh in response was surprising, but not unwelcome.

"I own the building," she said after a moment, and Amélie was taken aback once again.

"You...own the building?" And that meant this world-renowned leading research doctor was also a landlord for however many hundreds lived here.

"That's right, and I'm very selective about who lives here. Only patients and people who need a bit of extra care can rent, and I've got rules in place to make sure everyone lives a good long while." It was an interesting concept, to say the least.

"Explains why no one smokes or pisses in the stairs," Amélie finally admitted with a smirk, to which Angela laughed again.

"Oh they've tried," she replied, "but a bit of tough love has set more than a few straight. Haven't had any problems in...two years?"

"It's impressive," Amélie replied, "does anyone else know?"

"Not a soul," Angela replied, and the water shut off. A moment later, the curtain was drawn just slightly, and Amélie poked her head around, a stern look on her face, though there was a playfulness to her eyes. "And not another will, got that?"

Amélie looked flatly at the woman, lofting an eyebrow. "It's not all THAT impressive, you know," she said, smirking, "besides, who would I tell that would want to know?"

"That husband of yours might be keen on it - Gérard was his name?" And at the mention, Amélie's smirk vanished, and any defense she'd had now bore a large hole. She could feel her demeanor cracking under the pressure. Angela picked up on this, and the playfulness and sternness faded from her eyes, replaced with concern.

"Did something happen, Amélie?" Angela asked, and the curtain slipped, revealing perhaps more of her form than she'd anticipated. The sight of her nipple upset whatever balance Amélie had left. She stared, silently panicking before stammering and pulling her gaze away. A sudden tension built inside her, the excitement at her host's body teasing a warmth and draw from her, which stood against the flood of emotions she'd held on the trip. Emotions she'd all but forgotten about until now. Her eyes shut as tears fell and her body began to tremble.

"N-no," she said, trying to quiet the shaking to no avail, but at least managing to turn further away, "n-nothing happened. It's fine." And then Angela did something she did not expect. She could hear the curtain draw back, and her head was pulled towards the woman, cradled against her stomach. The tension began to fade alongside the warmth, and Amélie allowed her arms to wrap around Angela's waist, holding her until the shaking began to subside.

"You don't have to tell me," she said gently, "but I AM here for you, and I want you to know that." Her hand combed through the matte on Amélie's head, stroking and comforting, seeming to wipe away just a little bit more of her anguish with each touch. Things that would have bothered her now didn't. Angela was getting her clothes wet from the shower. Her hair was being unraveled from the quick up-do she usually wore. And above it all, Angela was naked. But none of it seemed to matter. It was the first time in her life that Amélie had felt so at ease, and so peaceful, and she allowed her eyes to open and look up at the woman who'd so readily embraced her.

Her white blonde hair was darkened by the moisture, and framed her slender face, blue eyes gazing fondly back at her. There was a warmth, yes, but more than that a familiarity and a connection. Amélie could have lost herself in those eyes right then, and she would have been powerless to Angela's control, but somehow she knew nothing Angela could do with her would cause her harm.

"I didn't mean to cause you upset, Amélie," she said, releasing her grasp some, prompting the same from her own hold, "I'm sorry for that."

Amélie shook her head. "You have nothing to apologize for, Angela," she said, finally managing a smile and pulling back to wipe the tears away, "…absolutely nothing at all." In her mind, calm had returned, and her trembling had stopped. She didn't even know when it had stopped, just that it had. And for a while, she allowed herself to remain there, gazing.

"Can you hand me my towel?" Angela's request came quietly, and interrupted Amélie's thoughts. It came back to her that the woman she'd been hugging was exposed, and she averted her gaze, reaching for the towel and handing it over. She could feel the warmth in her cheeks, and Angela softly giggled.

"Forget I was naked?" She asked, wrapping the towel about herself and shielding her anatomy from Amélie's view. Amélie only nodded, and Angela continued, her voice bouncing with her amusement. "I take it you haven't seen too many other women, then?" Her question caused Amélie's cheeks to redden even more.

"N-no," Amélie answered, still managing not to look, "j-just you and me."

"Well, unfortunately, there's not much to see here," Angela's reply came with a flat smile that matched tired eyes, and Amélie returned to look at her. She recognized that look, and that sentiment from her own form.

"I wouldn't say that, Angela," she said, reaching for the woman's hand and squeezing gently, "I wouldn't say that at all."

Angela smiled gently, before squeezing back at Amélie's hand and drawing the curtain to the shower closed. "Well, I'm glad someone thinks that way." She stepped around Amélie, making her way to the vanity to begin working on her appearance. Her pale skin was flush with the dampness of the air, her pores open and refreshed, and Amélie watched as she turned the wet mop of dark hair into the up-do she was familiar with. Moisturizer smoothed her skin, and a bit of eyeliner and lip gloss were added, subtly enhancing the features that already shown.

After a moment spent scrutinizing, she nodded. "That's good enough, then," she said, sighing as she spun about, leaning back on the sink. The towel Angela wore was thin and clung to her body, and Amélie felt her heart skip a beat. She couldn't stop staring. It was almost worse than if she were actually naked. Angela noticed and smirked, shifting her posture slightly to make her figure more apparent within the towel.

"Y-you're doing that on purpose," Amélie finally said, looking away, and Angela giggled.

"I'm sorry, Amélie, you're just so cute when you're embarrassed. It's…a side of you I've never seen." She could feel the tenderness in Angela's voice, and the fondness, and she turned about to see the woman smiling at her. "If it makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop."

"Perhaps…perhaps for now, at least," Amélie replied, nodding quickly, "I AM married, after all." Angela chuckled, turning about, only to stop very suddenly in the door of the bathroom. Amélie tilted her head curiously, and concern grew.

"I'm…sorry, Amélie, but…can you…make sure it's safe?" The woman who'd just composed herself looked to Amélie, and she could see that her eyes were now on the verge of tears. Her body was trembling, and by Amélie's estimates, it was all she could do not to collapse. She rose from her makeshift seat, the confusion and excitement she'd felt moments before melting away as she made her way to the other woman.

"We'll do it together," she said with a reassuring smile, "okay?" Angela nodded, reaching for Amélie's hand, and she took it gladly. She made her way to the front, and slowly lead her host on a tour of her own apartment, systematically clearing the space and proving to them both that there were no intruders. There was no assassin. There was no danger. It was just the two of them. She could feel the tension and uneasiness in Angela's hand rise and fall with each corner and doorway, her grip gradually lessening until they finally arrived back in the bedroom.

"…thank you," Angela said quietly, looking away in shame as Amélie turned about to face her.

"It's…what I'm here for," Amélie smiled and squeezed Angela's hand. She was about to let go, when Angela gripped a bit more tightly.

"Don't go?" She asked quietly, though her gaze had not moved any closer to Amélie's face.

"Angela, I…"

"You…don't have to watch me, just…I don't want to be alone." Their eyes finally met, and for the first time, Amélie saw something there she hadn't seen: fear, and weakness. There was something tender about it, something intimate about the showing, and Amélie brought a hand up, cupping her cheek gently.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, her thumb rubbing gently over Angela's cheek, and she leaned into her gentle touch, pinching her eyes shut. A tear fell, and Amélie rubbed it away.

"I…never thought it could be this nice," she said after a few moments, Amélie's thumb continuing to caress soothingly.

"What's that?" She asked softly, and Angela opened her eyes, pale blue irises locking once more with Amélie's.

"This," she said, bringing her hand up to cover the hand on her cheek, holding it there, "our friendship." And then it struck Amélie just how quickly it had come about. Just the night before, she didn't even consider Dr. Ziegler to be anything more than a mildly unpleasant memory. Now she was Angela, and now there was an abundance of fondness. She smiled.

"I think I know what you mean," she said, turning her hand to grip Angela's, looking into her eyes again and trying to help her find some assurance. The blonde-haired woman smiled back, though her smile was weak, and her form still laden with fear. "Go get dressed," Amélie finally said, "I'll stay in the room with you until you're ready."

"Okay." Angela's voice was barely a whisper, and she smiled, before turning about and leading them into the bedroom.

* * *

Sunlight glinted in through the window, and Amélie found herself conscious again. Angela sat in a chair opposite her, a reader in her hand displaying some medical journal. Her brow was knit and her eyes focused on the words, scrutinizing their meaning.

The private jet that carried them had taken off an hour ago, by what her watch said, and they were en route to Paris. Under Dr. Regis' direct supervision, Gérard had been moved in a jerry-rigged portable bio-stasis chamber, hoping to try to stall the effects of the radiation poisoning. There was only one facility in the world that had successfully woken someone from bio-stasis: the Overwatch Medical Lab in Paris.

She didn't have to read the briefing to know that this meant they didn't know whether or not they could actually save him. With Dr. Ziegler's help, it was no longer impossible, but Amélie wasn't sure what to make of it.

This hell of uncertainty could now last years.

Her own thoughts betrayed her, as her teeth clicked shut. There was anger there, but also a dread of what was to come. Years. At least in death, there would have been some release of tension, or some resolution to the conflict she felt between them. And when she'd left, that had only been days away. Now that wasn't even a certainty. Nothing was.

Angela looked up, and smiled gently. "Oh good, you're awake," she said, rising from her chair and making her way to kneel in front of Amélie. The dark haired woman narrowed her eyes. This posturing, this professionalism was unlike what she'd come to know.

"What are you doing, Angela?" She asked, peering in an attempt to find her eyes. But those familiar blue fields could not be found.

"I didn't realize the patient was your husband, Amélie," she said, reaching gently for her hand, "I didn't know it was Gérard who'd been hurt."

"Would it have mattered?" She asked, raising an eyebrow and pulling her hand away. She could see Angela's eyes now, but she was no longer Angela toward her. This was Dr. Ziegler, distancing herself from her patient behind a veil of professionalism. The disgust must have boiled up inside her and into her expression, because a new wave of concern seemed to wash over Dr. Ziegler.

"I know you're probably feeling a lot of things right now," she said, and there was a rehearsed aspect to it. Dr. Ziegler had given this speech a thousand times before. "I just want you to know that I am going to do everything within my power to save your husband."

Amélie scoffed. "Why are you doing this, Dr. Ziegler?" She asked, the expression on her own face flattening as her eyes sharpened.

"What do you mean, Mrs. Lacroix?"

"Exactly that," she said, rising, "'Mrs. Lacroix.' It's like you've shut me out. Why?"

Angela's expression faltered for a moment, and her professionalism buckled, but quickly smoothed over. She stood, facing Amélie and looking her eye to eye. "I'm just trying to make sure you know I'm not going to let him die, Mrs. La- Amélie." At her name, Angela faltered again, and Amélie could feel the need to pry open the cracks she'd made in the good doctor's shield.

"When did I ever tell you that I was worried about that, hm?" Amélie's gaze was piercing. It was a skill she'd had since childhood, and it was something she'd refined. "When did I say I was concerned for the patient? Did you stop to think? To ask? Did you forget the me who protected you last night and this morning, and helped you feel safe? Did-" Her rant, thankfully for Angela, was interrupted as the plane lurched from turbulence, both women reaching to their chairs for support until they could climb back in and fasten their safety belts. But Amélie was not done.

"Do you even know those feelings that I'm supposedly feeling right now? Hm? Tell me, am I sad? Frustrated? Angry? Scared? Confused? Am I following some textbook on the stages of grief - am I that simple to you? I shouldn't be. You don't know the dread I have of these next few months and years. You don't know what it's like to live your life in perpetual uncertainty of how your future will unfold, and whether the person you've said you love will live or not. You don't know the guilt of wanting them to just get it over with and die, so at least you'll have some closure. You don't know. You can't know. So do us both a favor and drop the act - it isn't making this any easier for either of us." Her own eyes had begun to tear up at the end, and her piercing gaze had watched as tears fell from both of Angela's eyes.

Silence followed, and as Amélie regarded Angela, and it was clear she didn't know what to say. She looked down, her legs together and her hands folded in her lap as she kept her gaze averted from her traveling partner. She looked sad, which softened Amélie's anger. She had been right, of course. She knew she had been right. It wasn't fair to just treat her like 'just another patient,' or 'just another loved one.' This wasn't that simple.

"I'm sorry," Angela finally said, not looking up, her voice soft as she reached for a tablet. But though she heard it, Amélie almost didn't want to have it. Not yet. She had just been brutally reminded of the tether she wore, and of the emotions she was so desperately trying to hide. A tissue was spent clearing her nose and the tears from her cheeks, and she continued in silence. After all, she had nothing more to say.


	6. Return

Hell-temperature. That was how Gérard had always described the warmth that Amélie used for her showers. She was usually quick in the shower, so the excess of moisture the added heat threw into the air didn't usually cause too much inconvenience, but for now, she lingered. She'd finished washing herself some fifteen minutes prior, and was now letting the jets of piping hot water pound against and redden her pale flesh. It was relaxing, despite any discomfort she might have felt, and was beginning to work out the knots that had found their way into her neck, shoulders, and back. Her own hands squeezed and rubbed at the muscles there, trying to aid the water, but in truth, they weren't doing much. It was mostly the water.

Her fury about the plane ride had subsided as she stood in one of the shower stalls in this glorified locker room that the operations crews used to prepare for missions, and then clean off the mess those missions had wrought. Modesty screens in these stalls allowed for co-ed use. A smile crossed her lips as she thought back to the first time she'd spoken with Gérard in one of these stalls, and how embarrassed she'd been. He'd questioned the authority with which she spoke, and asked questions that, at the time, felt aimed at dismantling her assuredness. But with just a few precise answers, the intel had spoken for itself, and the man had seem impossibly frustrated. He stormed off to prepare, and she'd followed afterward on the mission commander's suggestion – she couldn't very well call the op if their operative was not on speaking terms, she'd been told, so she would have to make amends.

"Make amends," she mused to herself quietly, shaking her head. That meant coming into this room while he was showering. Her first exposure to the co-ed prep rooms had been seeing Gérard's rear as he stepped through the privacy screen, obscuring all parts of his body between his waist and his knees. She'd nearly turned about right then and taken her leave, but somehow he'd noticed, and told her to stay. They'd both apologized to one another, and she handed him his towel before leaving him to finish getting ready.

How many years had it been?

Were there any more left?

The last thought stole away her amusement at the memory, reminding her that it was just that – a memory. For all the insecurities she'd been facing, she at least knew that she was fond of him, and that she wanted him to be more than just a memory for her. Amélie leaned her head into the water, soaking her hair again and letting the moisture stream down her face and saturate her scalp. Her eyes pinched shut, and finally, she allowed herself an opportunity that she had been avoiding. One hand braced against the wall, and she shook her head, letting her tears be stolen away, becoming one with the endless stream. In a way, they were losing their meaning. Even though she'd had her doubts, she did yearn for her husband in this time. He somehow always knew what to say; and even if she hadn't yet shown him this side of her, she knew he would have embraced it, and would have wiped her tears away.

And that was something else to regret; that option was probably already gone.

"I…hope I'm not interrupting anything." The voice came suddenly, and Amélie's eyes popped open, staring widely at the floor beneath her as she instinctively moved to cover herself, forgetting for a moment the privacy screen.

"Not at all, Dr. Regis," she said, turning, glad that the moisture would hide her tears, "I was just finishing up." She was also glad of her long hair, as she remembered the privacy screen and continued to act as though she was rinsing conditioner from it.

"I was wondering if you wanted Dr. Ziegler's impressions from her work after the briefing," he said, cutting straight to the point. Amélie turned her gaze to the man who was, for his part, sitting facing away from her in the bathroom. Even with her figure obscured, he was still a gentleman, which she appreciated.

"Since you came all this way from the medical wing, I'd hate to disappoint you," she said, the gentleness in her voice not doing quite enough to betray the upset that was raging within her.

"I think you'll be pleased," he said, and Amélie noticed his wide cheeks tighten into what she assumed was the same weary smile he always wore. "Dr. Ziegler is something else. In a manner of minutes, she'd transformed the ward into something akin to a command center. I'd never seen anything like it in a hospital before. She worked for two hours without interruption, and then told me the prognosis." He paused, then, and turned about to face her, finding her eyes and locking his gaze to them.

"She's hopeful, Mrs. Lacroix," he said. "Her initial cultures on his cells were promising, and she was beginning live treatment as I took my leave. She said that, due to the excess energy in his system and the damage it had already caused, she wanted to spend as much time as she could with the nanobots tonight."

"I see," Amélie replied, continuing to pretend to wash at her hair, while really just enjoying the jet of water on her back. She didn't say anything else, but this seemed to give Dr. Regis permission to continue.

"It's truly fascinating how it works," the doctor began, "her nanobots are capable of detecting abnormal electron energies, isotopes, and determining which genes were altered, and where. They make a map to determine where the radiation came from, and systematically move through the cells to isolate-"

"Dr. Regis, I'm sorry," the woman in the shower interrupted. While her silence had given permission, she had not done anything of the sort, "it's been a long day, and I just want to go home."

"Right," he said after a few moments, turning about and making his way for the door. "Amélie, if you need anything, please don't hesitate to call me. I'll do whatever I can to help." And with that, he stepped out.

She didn't reply, and the water was turned off.

* * *

There was something to be said for sameness. The routine Amélie had established during Gérard's absence was something of a boon right now, as it gave her a way to take care of herself by habit. In truth, she knew she was just letting her body go through the motions like some kind of marionette. If her strings were cut, she'd just collapse onto the floor without another word.

Those strings brought her to the train, then up the stairs to her apartment, where she finally slid her key into the lock and let herself in. Here, though, the strings seemed to falter. There was some solace she'd expected on seeing the apartment; some comfort that was not found. Her bag was dropped on a chair by the door in its usual spot as she stooped to retrieve the mail. Bills, a magazine Gérard had subscribed to, more bills, and three newspapers had piled on the floor in her absence, and she picked them up and put them neatly on the counter.

But doing this of her own strength was draining. Each step pulled more from her than the last, and she was running on empty. The fury from the airplane was gone. The fear of losing Gérard was gone. The anxiety at wishing she would lose him was gone. And in their place was nothing. She could feel her shell collapsing without the bubble of emotions within. Her willpower was faltering, and her motivation to even move beyond the three steps she'd taken from entering the apartment had all but vanished.

Eyes fixated on his name on the address of that magazine, and she regarded it for a moment. It was an American publication, and its cover bore a young woman on a climbing wall, mid-reach for what she surmised was a challenging hold. "Climbers International," she read the title aloud, and at once, her mind jumped somewhere else.

Gérard had taken her climbing once, on one of their first official dates. She didn't have the taste for it, but he explained that it was part of his mission gear. The same gear he'd worn that day. Her mind raced through his trip through the broken streets of Madrid, watching as his gear deftly took him from wall to rooftop, and then into the building. But there was something behind him – a looming green shadow that grew as he lingered. She wanted to cry out, to warn him, but another part stopped her, and her eyes widened as a brilliant flash overwhelmed the sky. Her own body burned away with the energy, and she snapped to, pupils dilating as her gaze flashed around the apartment.

It mocked her.

Even these inanimate objects could feel his loss. Even they wanted him back, but not her.

Not Amélie Lacroix.

A rage like nothing she'd ever felt began to wash over her, and her eyes fixated on the first thing she found that she could break: a vase that held a dried bouquet, covered in a glass container. It was the first bouquet he'd bought for her – he'd insisted on keeping it. But she felt nothing. The glass was lifted and cast aside, shattering on the kitchen floor as she picked up the vase. Her body trembled, and it was cast against the wall, destroying itself and falling in tattered shards.

It had not been alone, though, and she turned her attention to the great room that was adjacent. Medal displays, trophies, photographs, vases, their china collection, none of it was sacred, and all of it bore her wrath to its ruin, as she moved violently from point to point. Panting heavily, Amélie was not satiated, and she returned to the kitchen, intent on clearing the cabinets of their glassware, stemware, and the remaining porcelain plates and bowls. And that's when she saw her.

There in a stylized window over the kitchen sink was a woman both familiar and unknown. Her body was hunched, her breathing heavy and ragged. Golden eyes were alight with fury and rage, and her hands were balled into tight fists. Recognition came, as Amélie fixed her sight on the woman. And the woman stared back. She looked like her. She breathed like her. She had the same eyes, same hair, same body; but the woman Amélie saw was not herself.

Slowly, she approached the image, not allowing herself to blink, as the woman over the sink steadily approached in turn. And as she moved, the woman moved, too. The threat grew, until at once, Amélie threw her fist as hard as she could manage at the woman in the window.

But there was no window over the sink.

Shards of glass fell into the porcelain basin, their silver linings reflecting the ceiling as she watched them fall. Looking back up, a hundred broken pieces bore parts of her reflection, and she felt all her rage inside her melt into a scream that she never knew she could make. And she screamed until there was no air left, and the world pulled consciousness away from her.

* * *

Pain was what woke her. Amélie could feel a pounding on the top of her head, and the dull sting of a thousand dirty cuts on her fist. Her muscles were sore, and her arms, legs, and ribs bore bruises from her collapse. All of it ached, and bade her conscious. Eyes flitted open, and she stared down her arm at the baseboard of the kitchen cabinets before her, her hand and forearm covered in mostly-clotted blood from wounds that still bore the glass that had inflicted them.

She winced as she moved to sit up. The sink hadn't caught all of the glass, and some pieces had landed about her on the floor. A gentle whirring caught her ears, and Amélie glanced towards the dining area to see the automatons she and Gérard employed happily cleaning away her fit of rage.

Not happily, though. They were machines. They couldn't feel. And yet they moved with such ease. For a time, she watched them. She could throw a pile of dirt in front of them, and it would just be something else to do. No obligation, no command, just a task. A purpose for it to fulfill. There was no fear of tomorrow. There was no fear of loss. There was no fear of death.

There was no fear of anything.

The robots simply acted and reacted to the world about them. And there was a quiet realization that came to Amélie as she watched the robot cleaning microscopic shards from the hardwood floor. Without emotion, the robots were free to act as they saw fit. Without fear, there was nothing to stop them. For all of her fury, sadness, joy, anger, and disgust, none of it meant anything to them, and none of it had any bearing on what they had to do.

It was so simple.

Four loud knocks on the door behind her broke Amélie's stare, and she pushed herself up carefully, avoiding the glass that remained on the floor. The knocks came again as she approached the door, not liking her bloodied, disheveled state. But there was naught to be done for that now, and she leaned forward to stare through the peephole.

Angela.

She hadn't known who she truly expected. Perhaps the owner or one of their neighbors checking in on the noise. The police. Dr. Regis. But not Angela Ziegler. She raised a fist to knock again, but Amélie unlocked the door and opened it before she could.

For a moment, the two simply stared at one another through the opening; Amélie tired and emotionless, Angela apologetic and sad. Light from the apartment beamed around Amélie as she shifted her posture slightly, aiming to hide her more broken hand, and her would-be guest didn't notice—at least for now.

"I…owe you an apology, Amélie," the doctor said, as Amélie finally noticed the pizza box and DVDs in her hand, "it was wrong of me to assume anything about you or your situation. I won't try to justify it; you didn't deserve it, and I'm ashamed." Part of her wanted to hear exactly this. Dr. Ziegler—no, Angela was here now, apologizing to her friend. But another part of her was still upset, and knew that she would be more concerned when she saw the damage she'd done to her apartment and to herself.

"Shouldn't you be at the hospital?" Amélie asked quietly, shifting her gaze to one side, fighting the instinct to hide one forearm behind her back. Angela shook her head.

"The nanobots are in deep scan mode now. I can't do anything until they're done, which means at least another seventy two hours." Amélie fought the urge to ask for more information about her husband. She didn't want to hear it right now. Not directly, at least. "May I come in?" And there it was. Amber eyes darted back to the woman outside her door, and she felt defeated, as she opened the door wider for Angela to enter.

She could feel her eyes scanning the apartment, and seeing the remnants of her tirade. Efficient though her electronic cleaners were, there were some things they could not correct. Angela's gasp was audible when she saw the mirror, and Amélie didn't bother to bring her eyes to her.

"Amélie," she said gently, coming closer and taking the injured hand into her own. Amélie winced, still not looking up, fighting the tears that wanted so badly to spill out.

"You weren't supposed to see this…" she managed, one eye failing to dam the tears, allowing them to cascade down her cheek. She knew what Angela would say. There would be questions: why didn't she say anything? Why hadn't she admitted it on the plane? Then would come the probing: how did she feel? What was going on inside her head?

She couldn't even answer that herself. She didn't know. But then Angela caught her off her guard once more. The hand was dropped, and the woman wrapped both arms about her, holding her tightly, one hand coming up to cradle behind her head.

"I'm so sorry, Amélie," she said quietly, continuing to hold her there. The tears she'd been holding in began to flow, and Amélie buried her face in Angela's shoulder, bringing her own arms up and clutching her tightly. There was a moment's hesitation, and then she began to weep, her body shaking with the sobs as she struggled to keep her feet beneath her. Angela cooed quietly, guiding her inside and closing the door behind them. Some minutes later, the crying stopped, but Amélie still held on, not yet relieved of the anxiety that had driven her there to begin with.

"I'm here," Angela breathed, "I'm right here."

"How did you know?" Amélie asked, muffled into her shoulder as Angela began to stroke her raven hair.

"I couldn't sleep," she answered, "and I've been wanting to apologize to you all day."

"You must think me rather foolish," Amélie said, turning her head, only to have Angela turn it back by guiding her chin.

"I think you brave." The words came, and Amélie found her gaze locked on the woman before her, her delicate features and blue eyes outlined with gentle shapes of white-blonde hair. "But come on, let's get you fixed up, before we do anything else." Angela released her embrace and carefully took Amélie's lacerated hand.

"The mirror looked at me funny," Amélie explained, managing a small smile, and Angela smiled herself as she examined the wound.

"Well I can see that it definitely bit at you when you hit it."

"If you think this looks bad, you should see the other guy."

"I have seen your opponent, Amélie," Angela feigned sternness again, "I do believe you owe him an apology." And Amélie felt her grin grow. "Come on, let's have a seat. I've some supplies that I keep in my purse, just in case."

Antiseptic, topical anesthetic, bandages, and even a stitching needle and thread were produced. Amélie guided Angela to the tweezers in the water closet by the entrance, and the two spoke of broken mirrors, black cats, and other ill omens that, to their mutual relief, neither of them believed.

"Thank you for coming, Angela," Amélie finally said as the woman rose to wash her own hands, "I'm sorry I was upset."

"You've nothing to apologize for, Amélie," she replied, carefully stepping over the cleaning robot that had taken to the mirror shards left on the floor, "but if it's all the same, I'm glad I'm here for you." Her smile was genuine and sincere and caring, and Amélie found herself smiling back. Their eyes found one another, and once again Amélie felt a familiarity and warmth in the deep blue hues of her guest's eyes. She stared, and Angela stared back, both searching and neither afraid of the other.

"We should probably eat," Angela finally said, though she did not look away, "we wouldn't want the pizza to get any colder."

* * *

The hours disappeared in a blur. Angela's knowledge of obscure antique gore films was second to none, and Amélie had leaned against her as she explained trivia about the films. The woman seemed to light up whenever she talked about it, and for now, Amélie needed as much of that levity as she could get. It didn't so much matter that her breast was comfortable to lean against, so much as she was grateful to have another person with her, and that she did not have to be alone. And, she realized, she would rather it be Angela over anyone else.

The last movie faded to static after the end credits had rolled, and Amélie found her eyes half lidded, sleep beginning to claim her from the depth of the night.

"Amélie, the movie is over." She could hear the smile in Angela's voice, and she yawned, stretching and turning to face her.

"A shame," Amélie replied, "I could listen to you talk about zombies for hours." This brought a tired chuckle from Angela, who also yawned.

"I think I'll be able to sleep now," Angela replied, but paused after, letting her shoulders hang and bringing her arm across her lap, "though that likely means I should return to...the hotel." There was a catch in her words that Amélie was familiar with. From experience, she knew that Angela wouldn't be able to sleep a wink in a hotel room, even if she'd just spent hours wiling away her anxiety, or had allowed herself drink more than she should have. That fear was too real.

Amber eyes peeled upwards, and Amélie reached for Angela's hand. "You can stay here," the words were quiet, simple, and exactly what her friend had needed to hear.

"I couldn't possibly inconvenience you," Angela rejected politely, "I…I wouldn't want to be a burden."

"Nonsense," Amélie sat up and turned to face her more properly. "Truthfully, this home is too empty, and…I don't want to be alone in it." Her gaze averted as she let the uncomfortable truth out.

"Then I'll stay," Angela replied, this time taking Amélie's hand into her own, "for both of us." A smile curled on Amélie's lips as she squeezed her friend's hands thankfully, replacing the frown her complacence had brought. It felt strange to ride the roller coaster of emotions she'd felt just now, going from comfort to sadness and fear to compassion to anxiety and depression, and finally back to gratefulness and comfort.

Amélie began to rise, stretching and twisting her muscles back into conscience from their stiffened rest. They complained, and her head and hand throbbed, but she'd be alright. Angela scooted out from beneath her, and began towards the kitchen. She asked where the restroom was, and Amélie answered, directing her through the bedroom to the master bath, where she could wash her face and brush her teeth and change. Amélie, meanwhile, set about putting sheets and blankets on the couch. Muscles complained for even moving, but the work was quick, and she'd soon be able to sleep for herself.

And yet, her bed would be empty.

That thought caught Amélie off her guard, and she dropped the pillow she's been dressing where it lay. She'd slept so in that very bed for months before, following the dance of her routine like a marionette, and yet, this time, it was different.

Part of her wanted to return to the hospital. Sleeping in the chair as she'd done in Spain would have at least put her away from this place, and would have given her the company of doctors, nurses, even Gérard. But it was too late for that now.

Her eyes stared at a fixed point in space, focusing on nothing as her mind raced, fear and anxiety brewing a deadly cocktail that wasn't like to let her rest. The entire world seemed to fade about her, and her breathing quickened and shallowed. She did not want to fall to herself as she'd done before. And yet as she stood, she could feel the strings that held her aloft snapping, her very perception changing, and tears fell down her face. Feeling abandoned her as her knees buckled and her legs crumbled, letting her fall to the floor. A voice called her name, she could not answer, staring at the ceiling as it began to blur.

"Amélie!" The voice came again, and she saw Angela come into view, her white-gold hair glowing in the light as a halo. She was beautiful. Her hand reached down, and Amélie fixed her gaze on her pristine blue eyes as long as she could. And then, the world was dark.


	7. Close

**_Hi all! Just wanted to give fair warning that this chapter is changing the rating of the story from T to M - so if you're completely opposed to that sort of thing and don't want any part of it, you won't feel betrayed. That said, I hope you can continue to enjoy what I've written. More to come! :D_**

* * *

It was bright. The sun shone through the sheer white curtains, illuminating the room in a soft, warm tone whose arrival had been gentle enough not to disturb Amélie where she had lay. But her body was once again pulled to consciousness, and so her eyes lazily flit open. Despite how cold it was outside, the sun and the blankets made the bed warm, which she could greatly appreciate.

A quiet sigh escaped her. She couldn't even remember how yesterday had ended. It was all a blur in her mind, and frustration and guilt over the torrent of emotions she'd felt only added to the dread. Once again, Amélie thought, she'd be left alone to face herself. It was that thought that horrified her more than anything, and drove her to want to stay in bed.

And frankly, the bed was more comfortable than it had been in months.

Letting herself yawn, she rolled, and adrenaline shot through her system as her eyes fixed on the stranger in her bed, and she sat up straight. Thin form, fair skin, fairer hair—this was Angela.

"Mmm?" The woman stirred and looked at her warmly. It was a new brand of terror that gripped Amélie as she looked down. "Amélie, what's wrong?" Angela was still tired, only half-awake that she could tell, and Amélie struggled to find the words.

"Why…why are you in my bed? What happened?" There was a look of concern in Angela's eyes as she searched Amélie's, trying to find some connection and some way to assure her. It wasn't hard, at least, to convince her she hadn't been violated in any way.

"Last night, you passed out when I left the room to brush my teeth. I came back to find you catatonic on the floor," she began, scooting herself up in bed to be able to sit up and rest her back against the headboard. "You wouldn't respond to anything, so after I checked your pulse and breathing, I picked you up and brought you in here."

Amélie was taken aback. "_You_ carried me in here?"

"I'm a lot stronger than I look, Amélie," Angela scoffed, and Amélie dismissed it, "in any case, once I got you on the bed, I slipped your trousers off. I would have gone for your bra, too, but for not wanting to cause you violation or distress. Once you seemed comfortable, I tucked you in. I went to get you a glass of water, and said goodnight after setting it on your nightstand, though your eyes were still awake.

"But as I turned to leave, I felt you latch onto my wrist extremely firmly. I turned about and asked if you wanted me to stay, and you nodded. So I agreed to, and came around to the other side of the bed, took off my skirt and bra, and climbed in bed beside you. I wiped away some tears from your temples, and then kissed your forehead goodnight."

It was a fantastic story, but given that she couldn't remember anything that happened after Angela agreeing to stay, who was to say that _didn't _happen? At the very least, her facts checked out. Her bra was still on, and the woman sitting next to her was only wearing a blouse and underpants.

"I'm sorry," Amélie finally said, shaking her head. Her face reddened, and she brought up her hands to cover it as tears began to fall. "I'm so sorry. I should be stronger than this. I shouldn't have to rely on you so. It isn't fair to you."

"I'll be the judge of what is fair to me, Amélie," Angela replied, "and besides, I'm honored that you trust me enough to show me." And this put a smile on her face, one that she could neither have anticipated nor expected, not with how wild her emotions were running. 'Keep it together, Amélie,' she thought, inhaling and cutting off the tears of her shame.

"Gérard always loved how unemotional I was," she answered quietly, giving it some thought as she stared into space. He'd confessed to her multiple times how much of a relief it was that she never took him on the emotional rollercoaster that other women would. He loved how he didn't have to change to be more sensitive around her. He loved her emotionlessness. And so she had accepted it as a good thing. "Now look at me."

"I _am _looking at you, Amélie," Angela's voice was soft, but stern as she shifted herself into her field of view, forcing eye contact, "and do you know what I see?"

Amélie shook her head, and Angela continued.

"I see a woman," she began, "I see a beautiful woman. But she's afraid. She's wrestling with herself and her emotions, which is more than she's ever had to face before. And she's scared because she doesn't know what it means.

"But for all of her emotion: for all her rage, her fear, her relief, her anxiety, her joy, her sadness; she is beautiful. And she is stronger than she knows."

There was a pause. Amélie had looked away as Angela spoke, ashamed of the analysis, though the words reverberated within her. She could feel what grip she'd had on her emotions wavering with every word, and yet this woman maintained that it was beautiful. She couldn't comprehend that. "How can something so ugly be so beautiful to you?" Amélie's eyes were beginning to pinch shut, and her face to contort into tears. "How can you say these things?"

"Because it's a part of you, Amélie," Angela replied, forcing herself to be seen again, "and _you _are beautiful."

Something broke within Amélie then. She could feel a wave of emotion rising to the surface, threatening to overtake her and cast her back to the abyss. But there was Angela, and just as soon as she would have been taken by the sea that had welled up inside, she was pulled into a tight embrace, her face planted in the shoulder of Angela's blouse.

And for the first time in her entire life, Amélie truly wept. Tears poured from ducts that strained to keep up, and her nose ran as she clasped tightly to Angela. She was her lifeline, and Amélie felt waves of emotion pour themselves out. Speech slurred by her upset mumbled words and phrases to tell what was wrong, as if the simple act of speaking the sorrow would wash some of it away. And through it all, Angela said nothing, but to offer her tissues, and make her drink water.

She recounted her anger with Gérard for how he'd left her alone for all those months, and the guilt she'd felt for having felt that. She remembered the anxiety from the day of the op, which she spoke. She remembered treating Gérard poorly by not even saying hello before or during the briefing. She would have punished him too afterwards, when they to home - and they would have come home. She remembered the shock that came with the sudden Omnic attack, how she'd buried her fear to guide Gérard to safety. But she had been afraid then, and she was still afraid. The lights went out, and she was afraid while she sat in the bunker for hours, waiting for rescue.

She'd had no time to rest before she was brought to the hospital. She remembered the doctor's words, and how she'd felt conflicted. Part of her had wanted him to die. Part of her still did. And she hated that part for reasons she couldn't explain, and she hated that she couldn't explain it. She remembered the tension and anxiety building on the train ride, and the dread of months and years of treatment and therapy, and then the trip to Angela's apartment. She remembered feeling safe and open for the first time in a very long time there, and feeling guilty that she was allowed that much while Gérard was slowly dying in stasis. And she recounted her attraction, and how she found herself craving Angela Ziegler, even while she was still married. She told about the fear of being found out, and the fear of being treated like just another patient's loved one—of losing the connection they'd forged. And she told of the anger when that happened. Her frustration with Dr. Regis. The apartment. The mirror. Angela's arrival. The conflict she felt within her at just wanting to be free. Feeling trapped.

Feeling alone.

"I don't want to be alone," she finally admitted, her eyes long since out of tears, though her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"I'm right here, Amélie," Angela finally replied, her arms about the woman who'd been crying and bearing her soul for hours, one hand running fingers through her black hair. She could feel her lips press to her scalp, "I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere."

And she believed her. She knew then that, no matter what, Angela would be there for her. Amélie's hold loosened as she continued to lie against her bedmate, but she never let go. Exhaustion won, and her lidded eyes betrayed her once more unto sleep, safe in the arms of another.

* * *

It was dark this time when she awoke. The pair had shifted some in the sleep that eventually found them both, to where they were now lying down, but Amélie had maintained her arms about Angela, and her head in the crook of her arm. She looked up to the other woman, who was sleeping soundly as well, and smiled.

There was a new fondness there, unlike almost anything she'd ever known. While there was a physical attraction, she felt more gratified from lying beside this woman than she ever had with Gérard. She was accepted. Even parts of her that she was still trying to reject were taken in, and were appreciated and desired. All these things that she sought to reject, all of it had been taken in by this woman, whose hand still wrapped about her back and held her close.

She was wanted, and it was like nothing she had ever felt before.

Angela stirred, then, and her eyes flitted open. Even in the darkness, Amélie could admire their hue.

"Hey," she said quietly, a warmth and affection in her voice that she hadn't expected.

"Hey yourself," Angela replied, releasing her hold to stretch, which Amélie accommodated. "How did you sleep?"

"Better than last night," she replied, the smirk she wore playing into her voice, "I don't think I've ever slept so well, actually."

"I'm glad to hear it," Angela was smiling too. She couldn't quite see it, but she could hear it. "...do you have any idea what time it is?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea," Amélie's amusement played through her answer.

"Not that it matters, particularly," Angela rolled, facing her more directly, "I could stay here with you forever and be content."

"It might get complicated if one of us needed to use the toilet," Amélie retorted as she lay back down, her body centimeters from Angela's, their legs entangled. She had never felt so comfortable in her life.

"I need to thank you, Angela," she continued quietly, the smile fading to a more serious tone. "I showed you what I consider to be a very ugly side of myself. But instead of upset, you showed me acceptance and support like I've never known. I want you to know how much that means to me."

"It's why I'm here, Amélie," Angela replied simply, "you don't need to thank me. I'm here for _you_."

And then Amélie did something that she herself had not anticipated. Instinct turned into action, and she shifted upwards, fully pressing her lips to Angela's. At first, the other woman was surprised, but then she felt her own longing returned through their kiss. After holding for a few moments, it broke, and Amélie stared down timidly. Angela smiled, before the faintest look of concern passed her face.

"Amélie," her voice was tender, soft, warm, and just the mention of her name set Amélie's heart aflutter. Even just lying here with this woman beneath her was unlike anything she'd felt before. The heat of her body melted away the cold of the night through the few layers that separated them, and the timidness began to fade.

"What is it?" Amélie whispered, carefully studying Angela's face as she brushed a strand of hair away, tucking it behind her ear. Her blue eyes were wide in the low light, and they found one another, staring deeply, drinking one another in.

"…never mind," her smile reassured that nothing was wrong, "I just like the sound of your name."

"Then say it again." Amélie slowly crept closer, her voice softening.

"'Amélie,'" the word was barely a whisper, as her lips flirted, passing close enough to feel as it was formed and given life, her breath dancing on her skin, her lips, her tongue. It tantalized her, and drew her, and she gave in. Affection met with affection; Amélie kissed Angela, who kissed her back. Her lips were firm, but gentle and inviting, and the sweet scent of her shampoo filled her nostrils. She began to shift, sliding herself more fully atop this woman, extending every contact to its fullest. Even the faintest friction at her loins from the very movement tantalized her, and made her want for more. But her motions were slow, exact, deliberate. She wanted to extend this for as long as she could, as though somewhere in the depths of her mind, she knew that it couldn't last, and feared that it would end.

"Amélie," Angela breathed into her mouth, their lips parted just so. As she pressed herself against Angela's leg, she could feel Angela pressing her own warmth back to hers, now resting in the gap. Her hands rose, tenderly tracing her would-be lover's abdomen and side overtop the blouse she still wore. And gently, she found her hand covered by Angela's, and together they moved to her breast. Lithe fingers sought to embrace the tender flesh there in its fullness, wrapping it and squeezing. Its owner arched her back, pressing the anatomy more fully into her hand, and she massaged it there, bringing her other hand up to work at the other, drawing a gasp to pause the play of their lips. And finally, her thumbs met the woman's nipples, flicking over them through the blouse, and Angela swallowed a gasp, her voice shrill and whining.

"Amélie-!" Angela shrieked, and she could feel the woman's hands slide up her sides and about her rear, squeezing the toned flesh and guiding her warmth to slide along her thigh. Amélie gasped, pinching at her nipples through the blouse, before moving to unfasten its buttons. But that wasn't enough, even as the fabric was pulled open and she slid herself against Angela again. Her own blouse was opened, and she paused their kiss, sitting up to remove it and unhook her bra. Finally exposed, she gazed down at the woman beneath her, who gazed back with equal longing.

"Amélie," Angela purred, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of the only garment she still wore, staring up at her. The sound of her voice was like sweet nectar, and Amélie leaned forward to drink once more, pressing her lips to hers, and feeling the warmth of her smooth skin against her own. Their nipples met, and Amélie struggled not to moan as a shiver radiated through her form. She failed, and pulled her hips back, pulling off Angela's remaining clothing as she did the same. Their hips rejoined, and Amélie shuddered as she felt Angela's warmth against her leg. She ground her hips on instinct, pressing her slick anatomy against her, allowing herself to moan in agonizing pleasure. She wanted to shift, to fully connect their passion, but something gave her pause. Some hesitation in Angela's movements hinted to her that something wasn't right, and she allowed her eyes to open, pulling back to stare into her gorgeous blue irises. There was fondness and desire, but Amélie could see the faint concern playing through it all. Bringing a hand up, she combed a strand of hair out of the woman's face, tucking it behind her ear. Angela leaned into the touch, kissing her palm gently.

"Is something wrong?" She asked, struggling against the urge to continue. Her smile was warm, and she brought her hands about Amélie's sides, embracing about her back.

"Are you sure this is okay, Amélie," Angela's query was gentle, quiet, but appreciated, "I don't want you to regret anything."

"I'm sure," Amélie nodded after a moment, before slowly bringing her lips back to Angela's. Her embrace released, and her hands slowly traveled about her front, teasing at her breasts for a moment. And they moved and explored. Amélie could feel her desire growing as her partner's hands traveled slowly down her body, every centimeter a tantalizing eternity, until finally meeting her passion. A fire ignited within her, and for a moment, she wanted nothing more but to press against her and consummate their connection. But something was telling her no. Something very strong. Something she couldn't ignore. She didn't understand it at first, but as she grasped at Angela's hand, she found herself beginning to regret, as the torrent of emotions from that day began to replay through her mind.

"I'm sorry, Angela," she said quietly, pinching her eyes shut, tears welling up, "I just…I think I'm too emotional to decide clearly about this." She half expected upset from her partner. Gérard had been upset when it happened on their wedding night. She had been nervous. She'd asked him to stop at nearly the same point. He'd been silent and still, just as she was now, before climbing off of her and throwing a pillow at the wall as he screamed.

She had been frightened, and marked by that. He had apologized later, and they had made love, but that event hadn't ever left her mind. And now she feared the same from Angela. She dared not to open her eyes.

But then something happened that she did not expect. Angela's lips pressed to her forehead, and she held her tight.

"Then we'll stop," her voice was little more than a whisper, but Amélie felt more relief than she could express. She angled herself into Amélie's field of vision again, catching her gaze and eliciting a smile of silent thanks.

And in that tender moment, a sudden gurgling noise threw them off their guard. Angela's stomach protested the lack of food vocally, and she turned beet red. Amélie, in turn, began to laugh, and then so did Angela.

"I suppose that means we should eat something," Amélie finally said after a moment.

"Given that it _is _seven in the evening," Angela sat up, finally finding the clock in the room, "yes, we probably should."

Amélie clicked the light of her nightstand on and rose, stretching her slender form to the air.

"You really are lovely, you know," Angela remarked, having rolled over, staring directly at her form.

"I've plenty of flaws," Amélie scoffed, "my legs and arms are too long, my breasts too small, my eyes too narrow, too deep-"

"Turn around, Amélie." And after a moment, she did, presenting her full form to Angela - only to find her already seated at her side of the bed. She rose, then, and gently kissed each part that Amélie had mentioned. It wasn't even sexual, but she could feel the intimacy and affection pouring into her. All of the insecurity was put at bay, and she stared, surprised and amazed at what she had just received. And as she stood, Angela began helping her redress into their makeshift pajamas.

"Angela, I…" But really, what could she say? What answer was there for something so tender. Her eyes were tearing again, but she didn't care.

"Don't worry, Amélie," she replied, standing as the last of the buttons was fastened, "You don't need to say a word. I know."

The smile on her lips was unconscious, manifest of a joy she'd never quite felt, and as Amélie began helping Angela to dress herself, she found herself wishing she hadn't stopped them. Her skin was flawless, her eyes and hair perfect, her face everything she could have ever wanted. Her breasts were modest and perky, her abdomen toned and firm, her hips generous, and her vulva trimmed and tight. Even if she'd wanted to, Amélie could never forget her form now. And she wanted to take in all of it in every way she could.

But she'd missed that opportunity.

"I think I want an omelette," Angela finally said as Amélie finished her top.

"Have you ever _made _an omelette?" She asked as the woman stepped into her panties, which were pulled up. Angela simply shook her head. "Then it's high time you learned. Come on, I'll teach you."

"I think I'd like that," Angela answered, and they went into the kitchen.

* * *

The night had grown old. Angela had fallen asleep almost immediately after lying down, and Amélie had been content to cuddle with her in that bed until she was well asleep. But the curse of having slept through the day was that now, some hours hence, she was still wide awake.

Angela had rolled over, taking some of the blankets with her, but Amélie didn't mind. That much simply made the task of getting herself out from beneath them that much easier.

Slowly she sat up, and began the ritual she'd perfected with Gérard, carefully shifting her weight into slippers that carried her to the window, whose curtain was silently drawn. With a smile, she reminisced about how it had so yearned for freedom those months ago, and yet how gently it swayed in the heat that rose now from the vents in the floor.

It was just as content as she was, and once again she found herself relating to a dangling piece of cloth. It was her old friend by now.

And so too was the city, whose midnight lights still shone brightly. She'd heard it called the 'City of Light' before, but had never really understood why until she'd moved here. Even so far after the sun had set, the city seemed to glisten with a radiance she'd never encountered anywhere else.

"_Bonjour, mon ami_," she breathed, allowing her eyes to follow their usual patrol. Once again, the owner of the restaurant was taking out his trash, though he seemed much more satisfied with his haul. Here a man was calling for a cab; there, a woman and her friends were walking home from a bar. There wasn't anything quite so fascinating as the night she'd nearly flung the drapes across the room, but she kept her watch all the same. That is, until her eyes found a drunkard staggering down the street. A policewoman had just stopped her cruiser near the man, who now leaned heavily on it. To Amélie's amusement, the poor officer was not recognized as such, and the drunk man was trying, in vain, to prove his sobriety, as a means to attempt to woo her.

So distracting was the scene that she almost didn't notice the sudden arms about her waist, the breasts pressing into her back, or the point of a chin resting against her shoulder. For a moment she panicked, until she realized it was Angela and, smiling, reclined into her embrace, resting her own hands atop hers.

"Couldn't sleep?" Amélie shook her head, letting her eyes close a moment.

"The city keeps me company whenever this happens," she replied, leaning her head against Angela's.

"Would you mind if I joined you two, then?" There was a playfulness to her reply, but a sincere gentleness she'd never felt before. But it was more than that, and she felt her heart swoon. The very thought would have made her panic, had it been anyone but Angela; but the fact that it was made her smile more deeply than she ever had.

"I would love that," her voice wavered, a tear falling down the cheek Angela couldn't see. Angela only squeezed at her waist a bit more. The hours seemed to melt away as they kept their vigil, watching over the city as its lights spun closer to darkness. Amélie would point out details and things that she saw as she saw them, and Angela marveled at how much she could see. And they watched as life began to return, and people began to file out of their homes and into the streets. And they watched as the sun overtook the lights, and replaced their waning brilliance with its own.

"Gérard always told me I had the eyes of a hawk," Amélie finally said as the night ended, though she still stood with Angela at the window. "He said it made me a bigger threat than any field agent."

"Or a greater savior," Angela added, and Amélie turned to face her.

"Coming from you, that means a lot." And Angela returned her gaze.

"You saved me, too, you know." Her voice was tender, gently humming its tones as they continued their gaze, that connection they'd shared still lingering in the air as their faces edged closer together.

"Careful," Amélie quietly scolded, "I might start to get the wrong idea."

"What idea would that be?" Angela whispered, her breath flirting with Amélie's lips that longed for contact, as they stared into each other's eyes.

"Something," Amélie answered, drawing ever closer, "like this." Her eyes shut, and she pressed her lips forward, meeting Angela's. The two held one another long, their lips pressed together as they relished in one another's touch. She could feel her heartbeat and the warmth as her cheeks flushed with color, the press of her hardening nipples through their clothing on her back, the flesh of her legs where they touched, the tension and the relief that came from such a kiss, and through it all, she leaned into her embrace. The world could see them through the window, but she didn't care.

Finally, the kiss broke, and she held Angela as Angela held her, pressing skull to skull and smiling.

"Come again?" Angela asked, "I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that." Amélie smiled, but instead placed her lips to the woman's forehead.

"Come on," she said, "you should go shower; don't want you to be late on my account." Angela pouted, but leaned down, nibbling gently at her neck, sending shivers down her spine and drawing a gasp. Amélie was about to stop her and scold her, but she broke her own nibble, kissing the tender skin before releasing the hold she'd maintained for countless hours. She wished that it could have gone on for countless hours more, but reality, she knew, was not that kind.

Turning, she watched as Angela pulled the blouse she'd put back on and relieved herself of her underpants. Amélie could feel arousal growing at her loin as her gaze fixated on her rear, swaying with each step. She seemed to know, and turned about, allowing her a fuller view of the anatomy she'd only viewed darkly the night before. Her desire was transparent; she didn't care anymore. Angela smirked as her hands began to trace her own form, cupping about her own breast and finding her vulva with her fingers, adding pressure and causing herself to gasp as she spread her legs. Amélie could only stare, watching until she stopped teasing them both, and her gaze came up to her eyes.

"Are you coming?" Angela asked, biting her lip and holding her arms behind herself to make her breasts more prominent. It took a moment for the question to sink in, but as it did, Amélie's eyes grew wide, and her cheeks flushed with color.

"I-I don't think...I'd be comfortable with that just yet." She said, tearing unwilling eyes away from the woman who'd been taunting them just moments before. Angela could only laugh as she closed the distance between them, though, which confused her to no end. She embraced her, which was welcome, but equally confusing.

"I meant to Overwatch," she said simply. It made sense - though it could have been timed better. Angela pressed her lips to Amélie's forehead before pulling away slightly. For a moment, she was ashamed, but then it clicked.

"You...you did that on _purpose_, didn't you?" Angela's growing laughter was confirmation, and she smiled, pushing the woman away slightly. "You really _are_ terrible."

"Yes, but you're really cute when you get all embarrassed like that," her voice was spoken through pouting lips, half-whining that her plaything had been revoked.

"So you were making sport of me?" Angela nodded, and Amélie could only smile and wish she'd been the one to think of it. It even pulled a laugh from barely-parted lips, and she pointed to the bathroom, shouting playfully. "Go shower!"

"You love me!" Angela whined in defense as she made for the bathroom, throwing her hips intentionally with each step-hasty though they were.

"Go!" Amélie could hardly contain her laughter as the woman rounded the corner and turned on the water, muting all sounds. "But yes, I think I do." Those last words were soft, barely more than a whisper, but the admittal of that love drove her somewhere she'd never been before. Her heart felt light, like it was moving at a thousand kilometers per hour, soaring through the clouds. Amélie closed her eyes, and allowed herself to fall back onto the bed.

And staring at the ceiling, she couldn't hold back her smile.

She felt _free_.


	8. Debrief

Clouds had rolled in just after the sun had risen, muting its light, and casting even tones about the city. Gérard had always hated this sort of weather, as it usually indicated a coming storm, but to Amélie, it was comforting. The lack of direct sunlight made the day cooler, though, so they had turned on the heat in the autocab to avoid keeping their scarves and jackets bundled.

But that was about the only warmth that seemed to exist between Amélie and Angela on this trip. They were polite and cordial, and offered smiles and pleasantries, but all attempts at conversation had fizzled and died. Angela had finally turned on the radio as their autocab slowly made its way through the crowded streets. Amélie was only half-listening to the conversation between two people some decades ago about the Omnium, before it became the threat she knew.

"Life must have been much simpler then," Amélie tried again, and Angela nodded.

"I imagine everything was, before Omnium turned."

And like that, the attempt at conversation fizzled out. Amélie didn't have anything more to contribute, and neither did Angela. Her half-hopeful smile to Angela faded as she returned to the window, watching people on the sidewalk moving at a faster pace as the article continued to play. Questions began turning in her mind as silence hung in the air. Why was Angela being so cold? Why was she herself having such a hard time conversing back? Had she gone too far? Was the relationship between them fizzling out?

Absently, she let her hand rest on the seat between them, only to find Angela's hand there. But before she could recoil, as her instincts would have had her do, Angela laced her fingers apart and gripped at her own, gently holding her hand. And with that one simple gesture, the anxiety melted away like a morning fog. The blonde woman turned to face Amélie, and the smile she gave was enough to drive away whatever doubt remained.

What they had was _real_.

Amélie caught herself smiling again. It was an expression she wasn't used to, and it felt strange, especially given everything that was going on. But it didn't matter. She let herself smile back, and keep smiling. It felt good.

All too soon, the autocab arrived, and the radio was switched off. The machine locked its doors, holding them ransom until one of them paid for the trip, which Amélie was wont to do - it would mean she'd have to leave. But Angela gave her had a squeeze, before reaching into her purse to quiet the ever-more-obnoxious automaton and allow their escape into the cool, damp morning air.

Once outside, the two began to walk towards the entrance. Amélie could feel the conflict between wanting to hold her hand, and not wanting to be seen holding her hand - the scandal some might raise at her being so close to someone besides Gérard would be hell, and she wanted none of it. So for now, she opened the thick glass door, and held it for her roommate to pass through.

"I'll see you tonight," Angela said, smiling her thanks to the woman. Amélie could see the same warmth in her that she'd known minutes before, which drove her to smile more as she nodded.

"Have a good day." Her reply was coded, with subtle hints at what she wanted to say laced on every word, in every tone, and with every prolonged glance. It was affection, warmth, passionate, but more than that, it was their connection.

"You too," and all of her message was repeated back. The door closed, and she watched as Angela made her way to the medical ward, sighing happily before making her way to the familiar halls that would lead to her cubicle.

* * *

Men and women in suits sat around a polished wooden table. Some of them she knew; Amélie nodded to her supervisor, and their supervisor, who both offered her sympathetic smiles. She hated that. The few that remained were strangers to her; she could some names with some of the faces, but she had never met any of them, save for one. Dr. Regis was staying in the area in an attempt to work with and persuade Angela; she flicked her gaze away before he caught her acknowledging his presence, only to realize that the empty seat beside his had her name on it.

Pulling out the chair, Amélie sat down, setting her papers on the table.

"It's good to see you, Amélie," Regis said, offering a disingenuous smile with a hand for shaking.

"I suppose it is, Dr. Regis," she answered, turning to face him, keeping her legs crossed as she cocked her head to one side. Amélie knew she was being rude, she just didn't care. Part of her just wanted to watch the doctor fidget uncomfortably as his hand hung in the air, and the poor man did not disappoint. She gave him a flat smile, raising her eyebrows before tilting her face toward the chair where he was to sit. Just as he was told, the doctor sat without another word, and Amélie returned to face properly, letting out a sigh. She just wanted to get this over with.

A few more nameless faces filed into the room, seeming as though they were too busy to take the time for an F.O.D. Amélie checked her watch through thin, standard-Overwatch-issue reading glasses. If anyone else was coming, they had precisely twenty three seconds to enter the room, before it was sealed. The seconds ticked past, their steady march counting away the time before they would begin. Anticipation gripped at her, squeezing the adrenaline from her glands in a manner she did not expect. Why was this making her nervous? Everything she'd done had been by the book. Was it because Gérard was among the casualties?

None of mattered, as the door slid silently closed, and the lighting in the room dimmed. A faceless voice that she had not heard in years began to speak.

"Pursuant to article 12, section 23, paragraph 4 of the Overwatch Operational Bylaws, this Failed Operation Debriefing shall now commence. This inquiry concerns the failed counter-terror operation by Agent Lacroix in Madrid, and shall be recorded in its entirety."

Amélie swallowed as diffused light began to organize itself onto the table, taking on shape and mass, and glowing bright orange as it outlined a set of characters to her and everyone in the room. She recognized it immediately; this was the field office in Madrid, reproduced down to the desk toys.

"You may begin, Amélie," the voice finally chimed again, and she rose, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. To the individuals in the room, this telling probably seemed stark and cold, but Amélie was well-practiced at speaking to conference rooms full of people. She walked through the events of the day, beginning with the information she'd received from Dr. Regis, following herself down the elevator, through the security hallway, until she finally entered the facility. The mission briefing played in its microcosm, and Amélie watched as the combat teams moved to a separate facility to prepare, while she stayed behind to review the notes a few more times. She recalled the lack of intel as compared to other operations she'd run, and told her concern to the room before continuing. Her hologram eventually rose before making its way into the command center, where she paced for a long time, hovering between analyst stations as the specialists moved to their positions. Finally, Gérard went inside the building.

Amélie's hologram began pacing more fervently now, before eventually settling and watching the main screen as the clock ticked down its abort timer. Even just watching it now, she felt her heart racing - as if she were reliving all of the stress in extremely short order. In the nick of time, it seemed then, Gérard's blip appeared on the screen once more. Then the recording slowed to real time. Amélie described her mental state, and what she was going through as she watched the analyst address her smaller image. The audio from the recording began to play in the room, emanating from its holographic source as the estimated target rings emblazoned themselves over the main display. As she looked at it again, however, something didn't _feel_ right.

"Pause playback," she commanded, interrupting her own recounting, as she bent down to scrutinize the microscopic version of the map.

"Is something the matter, Amélie?" Regis' voice was low, but not so low that others in the room could not hear.

"The Sterilization Protocol doesn't make any sense," she answered, her eyes not leaving the miniature display. "Why attack this section of Madrid? Why now?"

A few murmurs went up from other members of the board of inquiry, before an elder member answered, her voice gentle, but firm. "The Omnium is a menace, Mrs. Lacroix; they don't _have _to make sense."

"With all due respect, madame," Amélie turned her golden irises to the woman, "the Omnium is comprised of computers. Every action they take is based on deliberate, exacting logic, and is executed more precisely than any human could ever hope to accomplish."

The elder woman peered over her glasses at Amélie, who'd straightened slightly while making her observation. She could see the wheels turning, but just as the woman seemed about to announce what Amélie would have guessed was her agreement, Dr. Regis intervened.

"Well, regardless of any of that, it was well beyond your control. Please continue."

Amélie shot a stare back at the man, who was checking his watch as though he had somewhere to be. Sighing to herself, she made mental note of the discrepancy, to look into later. That much, at least, would give her something to do-even if it was a wild goose chase.

The holorecording resumed, and Amélie pressed forward, describing the rest of the events until the bomb hit, and the recording finished. Through it all, the question nagged at her mind, beckoning her curiosity to give chase. What didn't she know?

"Thank you, Agent Lacroix, that will be all."

* * *

It was always interesting to Amélie the manner in which meat began to sizzle and pop when it first met a hot frying pan. Steam rose as her wooden spoon pushed the chopped morsels about the pan, searing the outsides of the red meat to lock in the moisture. Satisfied, she doused the pan with a small amount of water, before dumping a bowl of chopped vegetables in. While not quite a cornucopia, the red peppers, broccoli, onions, and shaved carrots would all go nicely with the faint sauce she'd prepared while the rice foundation for the dish cooked on the back burner.

This much at least gave her something to focus on. She could never have gone on one of the ancient cooking shows that used to be celebrated in America, but Amélie enjoyed it for what it was. With the tools and the implements and the stove, she had control, and she had freedom. Even with Gérard's teasing about how her skill at the stove made her 'perfect housewife material,' she had always shut him up with just how good the food was-and by then making him fend for himself once he'd tasted it.

Never once had the kitchen felt like a trap to her. In this room, in this arena, she was free to do or create whatever she wanted.

A timer she'd set nearly an hour ago went off precisely as she meant for it to, and she pulled the rice from the back burner, removing the lid to let some of the excess moisture escape as she flipped the meat and vegetables in the pan. Amélie doused the pan with water one more time before she scooped the rice out of its pot and into the frying pan, and drizzled the sauce on top of the whole ensemble. After another minute or two of stirring, she clicked the burner off and sorted the mixture between a pair of deep plates. With some fresh parsley on top, and shared glasses of red wine, the dish was complete, and set for two.

As if on cue, the door to the apartment opened. Amélie's eyes shot up from the plate, and a transparent smile painted itself on her face. Angela stepped in, and for a moment, Amélie thought the smile she wore was for her; but her lips sparkled with gloss. Thin eyeliner and faint eyeshadow made her blue irises stand out against her pale skin, just as they had the day they'd first met. Their eyes met, then, and her expression changed; Angela's smile was less enchanted, and its shallowness matched the guarded kindness in her eyes.

"Hello Amélie," she said kindly, stepping further into the apartment and beginning to undo her boots, with one hand. Amélie hadn't noticed until that point; she held a plastic bag, bearing the logo of one of the many five-star restaurants Paris still boasted.

"I- I wasn't expecting you to have eaten," Amélie replied, shifting uncomfortably as she began moving to retrieve a pair of forks. Would she even still want to eat? A thousand questions began pouring through her mind, and for once, she cursed her analytical skills.

"Is something wrong?" Angela's voice bore her concern, but as Amélie returned her inquisitive gaze back, she watched as the woman's expression became confused.

"No, no," Amélie deflected, looking away again, "it's nothing." There was a pause as Angela moved closer, and forced herself back into her view. The shock of this invasion played on her face for merely an instant, before she flicked her eyes to one side.

"There's definitely _something_," Angela bore concern in her expression, and Amélie couldn't help but look back to her pleading. Blue eyes widened as they recognized the hurt that Amélie was trying so desperately to hide. "...are you upset with me?"

Amélie didn't respond; she couldn't. She knew that what she was feeling was irrational, and that this jealousy was unfounded. Just as she couldn't respond, however, neither could she look away, as Angela straightened herself, resting a hand on her hip.

"I was invited to dinner with one of the other doctors," she said, letting out a sigh, "his treat. Said he wanted to introduce me to the city, and wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. I tried to call your desk, but there was no answer."

"My phone never rang," Amélie retorted, thinking a minute, "but that's-...that's beside the point." Angela's chin dipped as she peered through her eyebrows at her accuser.

"And what _is_ the point, Amélie?"

It was a response she hadn't been expecting. For a few moments, she simply stared, shame for her feelings taking over. Of course she didn't have the right to get so possessive or defensive. If anything, she should be happy that her friend got a date, right? Then why did she feel so rotten about it all? They weren't just 'friends,' she realized; they were more than that. Last night had proven they were more than that. But if not friends, then what?

Amélie had looked away from Angela during her introspection, but now that she needed confirmation, she returned to her. Angela had also been silent, whether for her own introspection, or for waiting for Amélie's response, she could not say, but for once, she was glad. Breaking the silence with what came next, however, she knew might cause more tension than already hung between them.

"...what are we?" Amélie's voice was quiet as she asked, and the atmosphere in the apartment seemed to still. Not even the clocks made any noise as she awaited her answer.

"How do you mean?" Angela replied, scrutinizing her as she held out her heart.

"To each other; to the world," Amélie clarified. For a moment, Angela seemed stunned by the question, but then it passed, and she smiled, setting her bag down on the countertop before moving closer, and taking Amélie's hand.

"What do _you_ want us to be?" She asked, pulling her hand up and beginning to rub at the muscles there. All of it was too much, and Amélie's mind went blank, as Angela's response hung in her mind.

"I…" her voice trailed off. She didn't know _what_ she wanted. Tears once again began to well up into her long-dry eyes, but before she could pull her hand away, Amélie squeezed at it, however gently.

"Well I'll stay here, then," Angela answered, "at least until you can decide." With her commitment, Amélie felt the dams on her tears breaking, and as she began to cry, Angela pulled her into her arms, holding her close as she clutched at the thin jacket she still wore.

"I'm sorry for getting so jealous," Amélie eventually whispered, after her tears had begun to subside.

"Shhhh," Angela cooed, "you have nothing to apologize for-and I promise I'll be more careful and considerate with our plans in the future." Amélie nodded, drawing a smile from Angela. "If you're really that jealous, though, maybe I should start telling all the men at the hospital who want in my pants to stop flirting with me." There was a playfulness in her tone that was echoed by the smirk on her face-both of which faded when she saw Amélie staring off to one side.

"That's…" Amélie replied, "...can you not joke about that?"

Angela nodded, bringing a hand up to the back of her head and pulling her closer. "I'm sorry, Amélie," she said, her voice as gentle as her embrace, "that was insensitive of me." Amélie didn't respond, but to wrap her arms about the woman and hold her closer. While she didn't quite know what it was that she wanted, she knew enough to know she didn't want random men calling after her. The two stood in one another's embrace, until the air between them had cleared.

"Come on," Angela eventually said, "let's eat."

"But you already ate…" Amélie worried aloud, her eyes settling on the bag on the counter. She nearly missed Angela's vehement head shaking.

"It's escargot," Angela said with a smirk, "I _hate_ escargot. Mostly took it with me for show, because it's expensive, and I didn't want to seem ungrateful." This drew a smile out of Amélie on its own, and she sighed.

"We'll just have to work on your palate, then," she chided playfully, before setting a fork in each plate, before sitting down opposite her to enjoy her meal.


	9. Choice

_**Slight warning here:**__ This chapter contains a psychology/therapy appointment that is very much NOT what a professional psychologist or therapist would do or say. If someone you are paying for mental help ever treats you in the manner described in this chapter, then you should probably find a new person to pay for mental help._

"Begin playback," Amélie's voice echoed into darkness, before a familiar hum began to reverberate. Tired machines that were well past their prime spun light into grids that carved through the air, replicating the scene that had once projected itself onto a nearby conference room table.

One week had passed since then. The board of inquiry had cleared her of any wrongdoing the following afternoon-she'd even gotten a rare apology out of it for the protocol, and for how difficult it must have been. Scoffing to herself at the notion, she'd thanked them for the consideration. She knew she'd done nothing wrong; all of it had been beyond her control. Had they included her in the pursuit or the gathering of intel, she might have had a greater effect; so as they had not, she could not blame herself. No, the blame lay elsewhere, which was why she now stood in the Hard-Light Reality Emulator.

Favors had been called in to secure the time and the resources to play back the full-size recording. Amélie had been effectively responsible for certain individuals' promotions, so she needed only to pluck a few strings to yield what she needed: a distraction.

Even if it was only a distraction, she didn't care. Even if nothing she found or did could isolate fault or bring anyone to account for what had happened, and even if no amount or form of justice could guarantee Gérard's healing, she would continue. It gave her something to _do_. Without him, she knew that her own work would be compromised. Frankly, she wanted it that way; if not Gérard, she knew her operations would not work quite as smoothly, and she wouldn't have the same success, or the same control.

What if he never awoke, though?

Amélie gave pause to consider what had just come to mind; what _would_ she do if he never awoke? She would tend to his funeral, formally becoming a widow, but was that it? Could she never amount to anything more than that? While the thought of being alone seemed like it should have been a depressing one, she found herself horribly bored of it. Gérard had given her someone she could talk to, who knew her life, who listened, who occasionally made her laugh. He'd been the safe choice, and she'd thought herself happy. Really, though, had she only been convincing herself?

The thought was interrupted as a projection of light moved through her form, and she watched as it re-ordered itself into a woman of her height and build. Her dark hair was drawn up into a familiar bun, but it wasn't until she watched her stoop over at the biometrics scanner that Amélie realized: she was looking at herself.

"Pause playback," she said, curious as her facsimile resumed her upright posture and returned her glasses to her face. Rounding in front of her, Amélie gasped as she beheld herself. The suit was old and tired, but it still fit her fairly well. Still, the gray she'd so admired when she first chose it had become muted through however many hundreds of operations she'd worn it to; she couldn't even remember the count now. Her collar was crooked, and the edges of the blouse she wore beneath were threatening to fray. Scrutinizing eyes then found her face, and she was stunned.

It was rare that anyone was afforded the opportunity to study themselves in this manner, and rarer still that they were allowed to simply _stare_ at themselves. The woman before her may have been pretty once, but this recording paid her no favors. Her dark hair was disheveled, the bun having come loose in transit, and gnarled flyaways standing freely into the air. Her eyebrows were too thick, and too stern, shadowing the tired amber eyes she'd never been fond of. Dark circles hung beneath them, exaggerated by the lighting through her glasses and framing a nose that was too sharp. Surrounding it all was her strong jawline, which drew her attention as it always had, and only exacerbated the displeasant expression she wore.

None of this was new, but seeing herself like this made it fresh. Perhaps it was because, for the first time, she was able to regard herself in three dimensions; she really couldn't say. Another moment of staring, and she forced her hateful eyes away, pinching them shut to stifle tears that had begun to well up. Did she always look so horrid? Having seen herself, she understood now why no one viewed her as approachable, and why the room always seemed to quiet some when she entered.

"...resume playback," she managed quietly, after stepping out of her own way. The holographic portal opened, and she followed herself through, moving into the main room.

"Forward to timestamp five mark sixteen," she said, having watched enough of herself, and not wishing to relive the briefing, or to see Gérard again. Everything he'd ever said about her beauty was in question now, and she feared for her ability to do what she'd set out to if she'd even seen his ghost here.

Like ghosts, the holographic persons faded away, their bodies dissolving into a hundred thousand points of light that floated in a deliberate mist about her, before settling into new shapes and faces. Her eyes fixated on the map, and she scrutinized as it came to life, right when she meant it to; just before the attack.

"Pause playback," she said, and the computer beeped its acknowledgment, seeming to complain that the command had occurred before it could finish processing the last. The people who'd been there animated for a brief moment, before halting in their tracks, her own image caught mid-step. Huffing a sigh, she moved to her own position in the chaos that was about to erupt, and turned her attention to the analyst who'd brought the threat to her attention. He'd been just moving to alert her, which made his workstation that much easier to pick out.

"Activate workstation twenty one alpha," her voice echoed, and once again, the computer beeped its acknowledgment. A few moments later, and the screen before her flickered to virtual life, and she began to parse through the data he'd found. Nothing seemed out of place for what she knew was about to happen. The raw data stream had been decrypted just in time, and his quick calculations had projected the blast radius with incredible accuracy. Checking through the windows that were open on the workstation, and glancing at the math on the scrap paper beside the keyboard, she knew it was no fluke; this guy-Marty, as she discovered his name from the placard on his desk-was _good._ They were all lucky he was there, and he'd saved their lives.

Still, it didn't make sense. Why would the Omnium suddenly order a strike on Madrid, and so far from the front lines? The city was practically abandoned, so a weapons test didn't make sense. And why now? The intel they'd fed the machines had indicated that most of the operatives for the false operation weren't going to be arriving in the city for another few hours; striking now as hard as they did just didn't add up.

"Resume playback," she admitted, watching as the rest of the scene played out before her. While chaos erupted behind her, her eyes shifted between the large screen and this console, watching and waiting, seeing what little there was to see. The bomb went off, the recording flickered, and then went dark. Frowning, she bade the computer return to the time index she'd found before. Again, she watched the panic erupt, and again, she scanned between the computer in front of her and the large screen. The blast radius overlaid the map, panic erupted, she heard her impassioned statement to Gérard, and it ended.

She had seen _nothing_.

Frustration set in, before she watched it again, and again, playing it through five more times before finally giving up, and ending the playback. If there even was anything helpful in this recording, she had no leads for where to begin. The scene dissipated into a hundred million points of light that flickered as they faded from being, dismantling the environment as she moved toward the entry. A brilliant hole opened in the darkness before her, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the sudden flood of light. It shone like the sun, which was remarkable considering the control room she was looking at was painted dull beige, lit only by ancient fluorescent tubes.

Stepping out, the door shut behind her as the lights began to return to their normal brilliance. A simple console produced a quartz shard, and Amélie took the crystal, tucking it into the pocket of the jacket she'd put back on before confirming the activity monitoring message, and shutting the system the rest of the way down. A single tone chimed from the speakers in the room, unlocking the door, and after collecting the folio she'd brought from the lone table, Amélie stepped out into the hallway to begin the journey back to her desk, her mind rapt with trying to find the missing pieces.

"Ah, Mrs. Lacroix." Her name interrupted her, both in thought and motion, and Amélie turned to address its speaker.

"Dr. Regis," she answered after a sharp inhale, "interesting to encounter you so far from the medical facility." She had no patience to deal with the man and his posturing, which was no doubt a ploy to win him favor with the higher-ups. So far as she knew, there had been no other cases like hers; Amélie was special. Other soldiers had fallen, and a few had required some weeks of treatment. Some had lived, some had died. None of them had been Gérard.

"Equally interesting to find you in the Emulator," she could feel the venom in his tone, and the subtle smirk he bore through the guise of concern betrayed him further. "Imagine my surprise when I learned that you had the bombing on repeat."

"I'm following a lead," she replied, though she knew it wouldn't be enough to sate him, as it would her superiors, "I needed to make sure I had the details correct."

Dr. Regis shook his head before her, folding his hands behind him as he turned and began to stroll the narrow width of the hallway. "You know, Amélie-"

"'Mrs. Lacroix,' please."

"-Mrs. Lacroix. I took the liberty of checking your file; you have not sought any form of counseling or therapy for what happened."

"I'm quite capable of taking care of myself, Dr. Regis." Amélie's retort was short. There was truth in what he was saying, but she knew it already. She had given subordinates the same lecture he was now trying to give her.

"I know you are, Mrs. Lacroix," he answered, "I'm just concerned. It's commonplace for people to become obsessive after experiencing trauma of this kind-and forcing yourself to relive the event _five times_ would give anyone cause for such concern."

"I'm _fine_, Dr. Regis," Amélie assured, allowing a faint smile to come to her lips as she continued. "Your concern is touching-really, it is. I'm sure the accolades you will receive from the Director and the rest of the board members for checking on me will make your deigned compassion worthwhile. But while you seek to make yourself look better in their eyes, the rest of us have work to do. Gérard is the sick one; I'm unhurt, and so aren't Talon and the Omnium. So please, Dr. Regis, let me do my job."

The doctor's pacing had ceased. He stood, gaping at Amélie for the lashing he'd received. Perhaps she had been too harsh, but she didn't quite care. She was in no mood to deal with his pandering and his condescension, and it likely showed as she stepped past him, rounding two quick corners to lose herself from him within the labyrinth of halls that would lead back to her workstation.

* * *

Dark silhouettes on a gray background faded to obscurity as Amélie's eyes traced their forms, rising from the earth. The buildings she scanned and knew well appeared as ominous strangers, as Paris sulked beneath the rain. Low clouds had covered a damp morning, the likes of which was want to suck the warmth right from her bones with its chill. They'd sank progressively lower through the morning, she'd imagined, until they opened up, and the once-clear barrier of their belly had been obscured, as though someone had smeared a painting before it had a chance to dry. She gazed out at the city, admiring the whole of the skyline iit painted before her, as it shivered beneath the cold blanket of cloud.

There was a poetic beauty to it, even still. In weather like this, there was a certain freedom. Gérard had put it into words: in weather like this, when people shield themselves from the cold and the rain, nobody looks up, and the city itself provides protection to those who know her best. While most would seek solace in the shelter of a warm house, she knew that comfort could truly be found in the chilled embrace of the clouds.

A gentle smile had found its way to her lips, and as her eyes caught themselves in the window's reflection, she found herself pulled to study herself. Minor features that she might not have noticed before now stood out as tremendous flaws, and after a mere moment's observation, she tore her eyes away, staring at an unclaimed spot on the floor inside her cubicle as she folded her arms in front of her. She'd been told before of how dangerous it could be to see oneself in the Emulator; it was one of the first briefings she'd been given. Psychotic episodes often followed, but she was better than that-she was detached. Unemotional. Unmoving. Like an Omnic Bastion, she felt she could take it.

Memories from the night before surfaced, and how she'd nearly hyperventilated herself to sleep while crying in Angela's arms.

Could she really separate herself so, when she was so clearly and obviously affected? She knew the answer, and knew she didn't need to bother with truly asking herself the question.

All of this was a distraction, and she closed her eyes, focusing her mind to prevent it from hinging on the insecurities that had been raised to a fever pitch. She needed to get these requests in, and then she could go home; and besides, Amélie also knew there was no one else she could trust the investigation to, when most would have dismissed it after the second playback.

The computer console in front of her sat with half a dozen request forms open. Engineers had intentionally obfuscated the process of retrieving data, so each form was excruciatingly long. They'd implemented the forms on the promise of more rapid data retrieval, but instead a process that used to take a week could now take months. Fortunately, Amélie had a few more favors she could call in, which meant it would probably only take a few days.

Practiced hands and eyes moved deftly through the inputs, typing the parameters for her request with unmatched speed. No one but her knew how quickly she could fill out these forms, and yet it was something Amélie allowed herself some pride in. Time seemed to pass quickly as she worked, distracting herself from that which she'd labeled distractions. One form sent after another, and soon the last request was sent off. Next was to send a message to her former teammate in Data Administration.

A man cleared his throat behind her - and judging by the weight and the gravel of his voice, she quickly identified it as Regis. The reflection in her console suggested another, and she locked the screen with a swish of her wrist as she turned.

"Amélie," came a voice that belonged to her manager. He was young, slenderly built with messy brown hair, and generally left both her and Gérard alone to spearhead their own operations. If anything, his responsibilities included coordinating reports to submit to the top brass, and occasionally leveraging his vast connections within Overwatch to synchronize efforts.

"Jean," she managed with a smile that thinly veiled her distaste at his and Regis' appearance, "I can't remember the last time you came to my cubicle."

"Has it really been so long?" Jean's jovial tone betrayed that his hand was being forced in this regard. After laughing, he continued. "How have you been?"

Amélie narrowed her eyes as she scrutinized both her manager and the doctor who'd come to visit. The tension was palpable, and she knew that it would not be long before she learned _why_.

"Please, Jean, cut to the chase," feigned disinterest filtered through her tone, "I'm a very busy woman."

"That is exactly it, Mrs. Lacroix," Regis stepped forward, cutting in as he leaned his weight against the edge of her cube, "you are experiencing a severe emotional event." A heavy eyebrow was raised in his direction, and Amélie turned to Jean.

"Dr. Regis is concerned that you aren't taking care of yourself."

"Well then you can tell Dr. Regis that I am doing just fine, and that my emotional well-being is none of his damn business!" Amélie was angry-but she had right to be, and she _knew_ it. Yet, glancing to Regis, her bite hadn't phased him at all. She even saw the faintest grin on his lips, which drew her scowl.

"He's ordered medical leave pending a psych eval," Jean was quiet, and his eyes had found the same serenity in the city's view that she had known, but that was now lost to her. Amélie turned her attention from Jean back to Regis.

"Why are you doing this?" She asked, confusion and frustration welling up.

"Why are you resisting? If the evaluation clears you, then I'm out of your hair."

"This is happening, Lacroix." It was the first time Jean had ever gone against her, and quite frankly, she was so stunned that the front she'd been holding broke.

"Fine."

"Excellent!" Dr. Regis exclaimed entirely inappropriately, his smile alone in the vicinity. "I've already scheduled your session with our lead psychologist this afternoon, and we've already cleared your schedule." There was a pause as Jean stepped away, and Regis began to follow suit. "I'm...sorry for your loss."

Focus returned, and Amélie's rage fixated on the back of the man's head as he began to walk away. More than anything, she wanted to scream.

* * *

Taupe walls lined an extremely stereotypical waiting room, complete with uncomfortable chairs, plastic plants, a barred window overlooking an alley, and a plethora of self-help magazines and journals. Amélie always hated waiting, but here, she'd been made to wait for an hour already. She kept expecting the feelings to fade, but they didn't; they _couldn't_. Anger and frustration took turns echoing through her mind, and arching over all of it was the anxiety of this situation.

This could be the end.

One word from the person on the other side of the door, and life as she knew it could be over - and a very large part of her felt the incessant need to remind her of just how messed up she was. Even though it had likely been blown out of proportions, Amélie knew there was some truth in what Regis had said. This visit was inevitable.

A red light on the door to the office flipped green, and the walls themselves took a bluer hue, indicating that the psychologist was ready to see her. Sighing, she rose from the chair she'd claimed and made her way inside. Every word she said, and every action she made was being watched and scrutinized and analyzed and evaluated. In some ways she envied this man's task of needing to so thoroughly observe his patients.

He was an older man, with thin gray hair, wearing a somewhat imposing suit. Scowl lines carved plentiful wrinkles into his face, and as Amélie sat, he leaned forward and narrowed his eyes slightly.

For a long while, she stared at him as he stared at her; watching, waiting, as though neither of them wanted to break the silence.

"You are broken."

The words came from a voice that was disproportionately high-pitched, and for the second time, Amélie found herself stunned.

"...just like that?" Her rebound was faster this time, but already she could feel her world beginning to collapse.

"I've been doing this since before you were born," he said, nodding slowly as if to himself. "You are broken. You try to deny it, you try to cover it up, you try to convince yourself that you're not, but you are."

"...how can you say that before you've even spoken with me?" She could feel the tears beginning to well up, and the defenses she'd held onto so strongly beginning to break down, but she fought them all.

"Because I can see it in your eyes, and the way you carry yourself. I can see it in how your shoulders have been tense since the moment you stepped through the door, and in how you haven't leaned into the chair after a whole ten minutes of silence."

His words echoed in her mind, and Amélie was blown away. This man's scrutiny was on a whole different _level_ than what she was capable of. In this room, everything was focused on observing her. The silence that hung in the air was deafening, but once again, the verdict he'd handed her began to sink in. It _was_ over.

"So what does that mean?" She finally asked, breaking the silence.

"What do you think it means?"

"I'll be forced to stay home."

"Is that what you want?"

"What does that matter? It's not as though I have any choice."

"Do you?"

His quiet, methodical, probing questions pulled her down a road she'd been reluctant to travel, as the idea of choice rang through her mind. The events of the past several weeks and months played out, and every major development had been the result of something beyond her control; she'd had no choice. Through it all, she hadn't been allowed to choose _anything_. She hadn't chosen to apologize to Angela. She hadn't chosen to lead the mission in Madrid - or even had any say in whether or not there should have _been_ a mission in Madrid. She hadn't chosen what had happened during the Omnic assault. She hadn't chosen to go meet Angela. She hadn't chosen to fall apart. What freedom she thought she'd had was an illusion; all of it had happened to her, like she was a marionette on a string, dancing to the parade of life's mishaps.

Tears welled up, and she felt her composure snap. Amélie broke her gaze and leaned forward, bracing her eyes in her palms, attempting to contain the moisture that sought to escape, as her throat caught itself and she began to shake. To his credit, the psychologist offered her a box of tissues, which Amélie employed, before shaking her head and rising.

"I'll see myself out," she replied quietly, using the sleeve of her sweater to wipe away more of the tears. There was no need to wait for a reply; she'd gotten her answer.

* * *

Water poured down on Amélie from the familiar showerhead, as she huddled to herself in the corner of the shower. The shock of what happened to her didn't actually hit until she'd stepped into the tub, thankfully giving her enough faculty to get home. That had been at least two hours ago, though with no clock in her line of sight, she couldn't really tell. They had just taken what little normalcy she'd found away from her, and forced her out of her own life, and she was left just as broken as the psychologist had described.

The revelation he had forced on her weighed despair as she had never felt. It resounded in her mind, hollowing every attempt at thought or feeling.

If she was not free, then what was the point?

So she sat on the floor of the tub, fingers waterlogged as the hot water continued to spray from the familiar showerhead. Even the scalding water didn't feel quite as warm as usual, and it had long since faded to normalcy. Eyes fixed on the spigot before her, before the image itself faded from her view and her mind, sinking her through sorrow, through despair, into _nothing_. There was no thought here, no emotion, no resentment for Regis or the psychiatrist who'd taken her routine from her, and who'd cast her here.

In silence and emptiness, Amélie allowed herself to be lost. She knew she should feel sad, angry, or bitter, but all of those felt like so much work. In some ways, not existing seemed almost better; and this silence and emptiness was a pocket of that. This gaping maw she'd been thrust into, strange as it was, offered a serenity she had never quite known. She only needed reach out and take it for her own; and in that serenity, there would be freedom.

It all felt so simple, suddenly, but also simply absurd. Hiding in this maw would free her from emotion, yes, but was that truly the freedom she seemed to crave?

"Amélie?" Angela's familiar voice drew her back to the present, and she slowly turned to face the well-dressed doctor who now sat on the edge of the tub. "I heard from Dr. Regis what happened. Did...you want to talk about it at all?"

She did not know how to answer, and so she didn't, simply returning her quiet gaze to the antique spout.

"Well, I need to shower; do you mind if I come in?" Another moment of silence passed before the slender woman carefully disrobed. Any other time might have drawn Amélie's gaze to the sight, she knew, but there was no point to it. Angela stepped into the shower, briefly obscuring her view of the spout. She could hear her sigh, but rather than proceed to move about her and clean herself, Angela stooped over, forcing her face into Amélie's field of vision. Sympathy notched her eyebrows and painted a faint smile on her lips as she gradually eased herself to sit on the floor of the tub beside her. She didn't say a word, which felt oddly comforting, instead only wrapping an arm about her shoulders and holding her hand, gently rocking her back and forth. A well of emotion built within her, threatening to burst if it lasted too much longer, and Amélie fought it back, focusing on Angela, and on the subtle swaying they shared.

"Well, nice as this is, we can't sit here _all_ night," Angela chided gently, "come on; I'll take care of you." There wasn't anything for it, though Amélie didn't really object, either. As Angela picked her up and turned off the shower, she simply let it happen. She stood her up on the floor mat, quickly drying the water from both their forms, before scooping her back up and carrying her to the bed, and asked her to wait there. Amélie had no will to do otherwise, her gaze pointed at the ceiling, and staring straight through it. The chill of the air began to wrap itself about her, causing her to want for clothing - but it was for naught; she knew that in time, that same chill would become normal. What felt like mere moments-but may have been much longer-Angela returned.

"Don't say anything if you'd like to join me in the living room to watch some old zombie movies." Her voice was a little bit playful, which Amélie appreciated, but even if she _had_ asked for proper confirmation, she couldn't have provided. After a moment, Angela picked her up and carried her to the living room, depositing her on a blanket on the couch, before sitting beside her and wrapping the heavier cloth about them both. A sweet, salty aroma greeted her nostrils, and Amélie slowly looked down to the table, where a pair of plastic trays held some sort of pseudo-Chinese recipe, set beside two large glasses of water.

"I'll be sad if you don't eat anything, Amélie," Angela teased, "I slaved so hard on this, after all." She leaned forward, picking up her tray and the plastic fork beside, pinning the blanket to her chest beneath her arms. But rather than feed herself, she shifted on the couch to face Amélie more properly. Some of the meat and vegetables were skewered, and raised to her lips, and Amélie bit, chewed, and swallowed. The food tasted fake, like it had been cooked, freeze-dried, re-heated, and freeze-dried _again_ before Angela had put it in the microwave. But it was edible, and she knew Angela had done her best.

She didn't eat much, but the fact that Angela had gotten her to eat was something in itself. Amélie could feel her emotions calming some as the maw she'd fallen into began to lose its grip, but the turmoil still boiled beneath the surface.

Angela put the movie on, and Amélie leaned against her beneath the blanket as she ranted and raved about the quality of the makeup and the special effects, claiming that they were the best she'd seen. It was a film about zombies fighting robots, and while the plot and acting left much to be desired, Angela was thrilled by how well the artists had researched decaying corpses, and how their bodies and organs would have actually reacted to the punishment the robots were bringing.

As they were watching, though, something broke down within Amélie, and tears began to pour from her eyes. Silent at first, she shifted, her face beginning to contort as she buried it against Angela, who quickly turned the movie off and wraps her arms about her. There is no reason for the tears that fall that she could easily explain, but Angela didn't ask, instead opting to hold her close and stroke her yet-damp hair until the tears had made their way out. Over time, the two shifted, allowing more contact, and more comfort. As her eyes finally dried, Amélie wanted nothing but to rest here, in the safety of this woman's arms. Her eyes shut, and consciousness slipped from her once more.

* * *

It was calm. Amélie stirred gently from where she slept, enjoying the warmth and comfort, and the beating of Angela's heart beneath where her head lay. Awareness crept back, and her skin confirmed what she'd remembered. There was no panic at their mutual nudity, nor at their closeness. She only vaguely remembered falling asleep, but she couldn't ever recall having slept more soundly.

On cue, Angela stirred herself, having awoken at the same time. She stretched, yawning with her mouth wide, before returning her arms about Amélie's form, clutching her to herself along with the blanket that covered them both. A comfortable sigh escaped her lips, and Amélie found a smile creeping onto her lips as she considered all that this woman had done.

"...thank you," she said, finally, though really, she meant so much more than that. Angela returned her smile, before craning her neck to kiss her forehead.

"You don't have to thank me," she replied, "it's what I'm here for." The very fact that she _was_ here spoke volumes. Amélie didn't even know what was going on within herself, and she couldn't predict what she would do or say; yet despite that, or perhaps because she might have known something of these troubled waters, Angela stayed. She cared for her in ways she didn't know she'd needed, and could never have asked for, and she had a way of knowing just what to do or say to bring her back from the brink.

The psychiatrist had hinted that there had been no choice for her but to follow the path laid before her, and in some ways, he'd been right. Geneva had started it all, and while she'd made a decision, there was no choice involved. Madrid, too, had left her no choice, and neither had any event that followed. The only choice she'd been presented lay with the woman beneath her. She had offered herself, only for Amélie to retreat at the last moment, which she'd regretted ever since.

"I think I can give you that decision now," she said, feeling her heart flutter in the darkness as she gazed up at her blue eyes.

"Only if you want to," Angela reassured, smiling as Amélie shifted, pressing their lips together for a long moment.

"I choose _you_." Her whisper muttered directly into Angela's ear, before she returned their lips together. Amélie could feel her partner's delight play through the kiss as she began to shift atop her more thoroughly. Arms explored one another, hands finding sides and rear and back and nape and shoulders, as Amélie began to feel her nethers swell, and her nipples pucker with arousal. Her digits wrapped around her breasts, squeezing firmly and pinching at their peak, drawing a gasp from Angela. The favor was returned, and Amélie felt her desire growing. Without any prompting, her hips began to sway, pressing her vulva against Angela's thigh, as she felt Angela press her own in turn. Her heat and moisture were tantalizing, and Amélie sat up, shrugging the blanket off her shoulders to gaze at her lover, as waves of pleasure began to slowly radiate with each move they made.

She longed to shift, to connect their intimacy, to touch Angela in the most intimate way she could, but she needed some sign, some confirmation that it was a desire she shared. Angela gasped as she paused, staring up at her. She drank in her form, and Amélie reveled in as much, studying her body with equal yearning. There was a nervousness there, but an excitement that mirrored her own, and a longing to consummate that which had grown between them. The blonde doctor smiled timidly, her face flushed with color as she turned her hips and set her hands on Amélie's rear.

Every instant felt like an eternity, and the tension was unbearable as she felt her vulva slowly guided toward Angela's, the heat and intensity growing with every millimeter. Amélie whined, which drew a playful smirk to Angela's lips, before she pulled their labia fully together. At the sudden contact, a spark rushed over her body, and she gasped sharply, eyes lidding as she drank in the moment.

But the moment ended as quickly as it had began, as Angela's phone rang and pierced the otherwise silent night. Both women looked to it, and Amélie frowned.

"It's the hospital ringtone." Angela's disappointment seemed as sharp as Amélie's as she sat up and retrieved the phone, "this had better be damn important." Answering the device drew her attention, but Amélie would not let their intimacy fade so quickly. Kneeling on the floor, her lips found her breast, and her teeth gently grasped at its nipple, suckling hard and biting _just_ enough to make it feel good. Her goal of making her gasp or moan while she was on the phone was quickly abandoned, though, as Angela's tone shifted very suddenly, and she rose to her feet.

"Understood, I'll be there as swiftly as I can." Her words were disappointing, to say the least, but Amélie forced herself to remember that Angela was a doctor; love, sex, family, even eating and sleeping were secondary to that singular dedication. In that much, admiration grew, and Amélie rose to her feet as well.

"Must you go?" She asked, though they both knew the answer.

Angela nodded her reply. "Gérard went into cardiac arrest. The doctors on-site were able to revive him with the nanobots, but I need to go investigate."

"When will you be back?" Amélie frowned as Angela began to move to the bedroom to retrieve her clothing.

"I'm not sure," she replied, already having replaced her underwear. She slipped her bra over her arms, and Amélie helped fasten the garment in place.

"Should I wait up?"

Angela shook her head as the blouse was pulled up over her shoulders, and the buttons hastily snapped before she slid a pencil skirt up her legs, fastening it at her hip. She grabbed a deep red cardigan, which complimented the off-black skirt and made her eyes stand out even more than usual, while she fussed with her hair in the shards of the mirror that remained over the sink.

Amélie retrieved her purse, handing the item to her after she hastily donned a pair of flats. Taking it, Angela paused for a moment, before pulling Amélie close in a tight embrace, which she returned for a long moment.

"I'll be back," Angela said as she released the embrace and kissed her on the cheek.

"I'll be waiting," Amélie answered, and watched as she made her way out the door.


End file.
